Carter
By the time June’s pretty little feet carry her through the doorway, I already have my coat and fucking keys in hand.
I shouldn’t have snapped at her. It was a shitty thing to do. It must have hurt her—I know that, and I feel like less of a man for it.
A real man doesn’t lash out at a woman. A real man holds his emotions together, stuffs them down, and does what needs to be done.
That’s how I was raised.
Repressed.
Swallow that shit and never let anyone know that you’re hurting, that you’re struggling, and that you might need help.
A real man would drive his wife—or whatever the fuck June wants me to call her—he would drive her to her ultrasound, hold her hand, watch with bated breath as the life he created with her appears on the screen.
I might have hurt June—but I’m sure as fuck not letting the only consistently good thing in my life storm out the door and walk away.
But just then, before I could chase her down, my phone rings.
It was at this very moment that things start to unravel.
I should have listened to the feeling of foreboding in the pit of my stomach, but heck, I didn’t.
What was I thinking? What was I even fucking thinking?
What could have been just a fat fucking hangover, with a little bit of my occasional IMO brooding thrown in, with the additional emotional baggage brought by June, is now turning into an actual fucking nightmare.
You know, one of those nasty fucking dreams where there’s nothing obvious like a monster chasing you. And no, you’re not even back in school or some shit—a dream where you’re just trying to get somewhere and you can’t get there because you keep getting stopped.
Either you just can’t move your fucking foot, or there’s some kind of invisible magnetic field in front of you, keeping you from moving even an inch forward…
Or, and I think we can all agree that this is the best one, the fucking phone starts ringing, and for some reason, you have no choice but to answer that motherfucker. It’s not that you want to, but you just know that something even worse will happen if you just let it ring.
I pick up the phone, because unfortunately, this isn’t some bad dream.
It’s just me in my goddamn business, where I’m always dealing with some kind of shit.
To be fair, the shit I’m dealing with really fucking sucks today, but that doesn’t stop me from answering the phone.
“Fuck,” I grumble to myself as I hit the button to receive the call, “she was happy—all I had to do was be happy, despite all the fucking shit.”
“This is Carter,” I mutter, only slightly louder this time, into the phone as I hover by the exit.
“Is that how you answer your phone these days?”
Yes, it’s a fucking nightmare all right—except this one is of the waking variety.
“Only when I’m hoping it’s a bad dream, Chantal.”
“How’d you know it was me?” She has her usual sarcastic yet slightly short tone to her voice, but she’s whispering for some reason.
I’m already starting to wobble, not even watching where I’m going.
Fuck it.
This might feel like a nightmare, but it’s not really. I could just hang up the phone.
I start taking the phone down away from my ear, but I hear her hissy voice whispering.
“Carter, Carter...come on.”
It’s like she can tell that I’m taking the phone away from my ear. Fuck if it doesn’t startle the life out of me for some ungodly reason.
I bring the phone right back up to my fucking ear. Maybe I’m just on edge today. Maybe Chantal is just fucking lying.
When it comes to Chantal, it usually pays to bet on the lie.
Usually.
But I notice myself that I’m not taking my phone away from my ear anymore.
And, to be honest, that shit scares me more than any fucking else today or yesterday.
“Carter...Carter, please, I need you to help me. This is serious.”
How serious could it be? For fuck’s sake, she was just whispering one of her classic fucking jokes.
“Carter,” she sniffles.
Fuck, that sniffle…she’s crying, and her voice is laced with fear.
This doesn’t sound good.
“Carter...” she sniffles again. The phone translates the sound to a horrible electronic squall.
Yeah, this does not sound fucking good at all.
Now, I think you might be able to bet on Chantal lying. Yet I couldn’t deny the intense, nagging dread audible in her whimpered pleas.
If Chantal is telling the truth, it’s not just my ex-girlfriend who’s in peril.
I’m still not ready to go all in on this quite yet.
“Chantal, just tell me what’s going on.”
I’m doing my best—I sound about as earnest as fucking possible given the circumstances.
“Carter...just, Carter, oh god, Carter, please...”
Holy shit. Her voice is getting lower, transforming into a soft, terrified ghost of a whisper.
I’m still not completely sold.
“Seems like you were making fun of me just a minute ago.”
“I…I don’t…please…first I ran in here, and now it sounds like he has…I’m afraid to…he could come in here at any moment!”
Yeah, I’m starting to believe it. She’s not that good of a fucking actress, and the terror and unsettling weirdness sound much too real.
And I just realize that I’m standing in almost the same fucking spot that I was on when the phone first rang.
Unconsciously, I think I could already tell some shit was going down before I answered the phone. And consciously, I’m really fucking starting to believe it now.
If things were just a little bit different, I wouldn’t necessarily give a shit how real this is.
I mean, I’m not saying I would leave her in danger—whatever fucking danger this is—but I probably wouldn’t be thinking about how I’m going to get myself to wherever the fuck she is as fast as fucking possible.
Because this is not just Chantal my ex-girlfriend.
This is Chantal, the mother of my brother’s child.
And, if this somehow isn’t for real, it would be pretty fucking strange.
Honesty, in my experience, can be an issue with Chantal.
But on the other hand, calling me years after our relationship ended to do some weird-ass prank shit or whatever this could be is also not an issue with Chantal as far as I know.
“Carter, Carter...” Chantal’s talking slightly louder now and growing breathless with fear.
And I just realize that I’m starting to fucking run with my coat clasped in my hand.
And I don’t even know what fucking direction I’m supposed to be going…
Towards my fucking car would be a start.
“Where are you?” I ask. “And what exactly is going on?”
“Carter...” The sound of a swallowed sob jars the shit out of me. “I…you know I don’t use anymore. It was…just a moment of weakness.”
“What have you done?” The world abruptly starts dimming around me. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend the implications of what Chantal just said.
“I didn’t. I…” Chantal lowers her voice dramatically. “I just came here to…I don’t know. But then I couldn’t do it. I told them I didn’t want any. I didn’t want to buy.”
Fuck, I’m believing it now. It’s all becoming clear.
“Let me guess: they didn’t care for your change of heart.”
Chantal’s sobs, especially as she tries to stifle them, radiate with the sound of pure terror through my phone.
My body feels almost weightless as I tear like an actual fucking bat out of hell to my car.
These motherfuckers don’t realize who’s fucking family they’re fucking with now.
“Carter, I’m in the bathroom…p-please.”
“Where are you?” My voice is coming out raspy and low. I’d never even fucking heard it that way—I’m almost scared for these fucking pricks now.
“I s-said I’m in the b…”
“Where are you?”
“Colton T-Towers Penthou…”
Now that I have the information I need, I hang up the phone and nearly fly the last few feet to my car.
This isn’t about Chantal my ex-girlfriend or trying to revisit the past in any way.
There’s no way I would go down that path again, because it would lead to the same painful place every time.
This is about Chantal, the mother of my brother’s child.
I throw my driver’s side door open with enough force to nearly tear it off its fucking hinges. It stays on, though, even after I dive in and slam it shut twice as hard.
Tearing through the streets of Midtown at near-supersonic speed, there’s one phone call I need to make on my way to going fucking ballistic.
After dialing June’s number on my dashboard display, I hook a hard, tire-squealing left turn towards where these sorry fucking bastards are about to have the worst day of their fucking lives.
The car stereo system, automatically synced to my phone, carries an angelic ding through the speakers.
“Okay, Carter. What is it?”
“June, your voice is the best goddamn thing to ever come through my car’s speakers.”
“So now you’re driving here?”
“Soon, June. I’m picking you up after the ultrasound—right now I have to make a quick stop.”
“Yeah, whatever you…you, asshole.”
The line goes dead.
Did June really just say that?
That couldn’t have been her. I’ll have to ask when I see her in a bit.
But like I said to June, I just have a quick stop to make first.