I SCRAPE THE rest of the food off my plate and give it a quick rinse. Sticking it in the dishwasher, I pause to look out the window. The sky is a beautiful cascade of purples and oranges as the sun starts to dip on the other side of the lake. It’s beautiful and I give a long thought about raising the baby here.
The baby. The words aren’t quite as overwhelming as they were a few days ago. I’m still not sure how this is going to work out or how I’ll learn to be a mother, but it seems more manageable. Maybe.
“Do you like it here?” I ask aloud, splaying my fingers on my abdomen. “It’s quiet. You could play outside with no one to bother you and Mommy could work from the porch and make you lunch like my mommy used to do for me.”
There’s a serenity about this, so much so that I begin to wonder if it’s actually possible. Up until now, raising a baby seemed more like a “Can I do this?” Now it’s a “How do I do this?” and that’s a totally different thing.
I glance at the refrigerator and think back to Branch. A grin touches my lips immediately, the good memories coming back around, even if they were just for a short time. Our future is going to be tangled, and I find myself hoping we can just get along a fraction as well as we did then.
I go back to the table and sit next to a yellow legal pad and black pen. A few notes are scratched into lists, things I need to work out and prepare and notes from a baby book Poppy brought me.
Looking up as a set of headlights shines through the windows, I stand as they flick off. I walk to the glass and watch Branch trudge towards the door.
A lump materializes in my throat, making it impossible to swallow and just as hard to even breathe. His head is down, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans as he hits the landing of the stairs. He doesn’t look up until he’s at the door.
The sound of the knock makes me jump even though I expect it and I stand and stare at the chunk of wood separating him and I. The barrier feels good between us. Like if I can stay inside and keep him out, I can hide in my little cocoon.
Then he knocks again.
I touch the handle like it might burn me, placing one finger on top of the metal knob.
He knocks again. “Layla, open the door.”
The command part of that irritates me, but there’s a quake in the tone that pulls at a heartstring. One. One heartstring because the rest of them still want to deck him in his handsome face.
“Layla, please open the door.” There’s a long pause. “I know you can hear me and I’m not going anywhere until we talk. So just do us both a favor and open up.”
Flinging the door open, I catch sight of his face. His right eye has a purplish-blue circle around it, the underside swollen to the point I’m not sure how well he can even see out of it. The right side of his lip is busted, and it, too, is swollen. He looks at me, his eyes without the cocky glimmer I’m used to seeing in them.
“I didn’t open this as a favor to either of us,” I tell him. “I opened it to tell you that you need to leave.”
“Layla . . .”
“I’m just full of things you don’t want to hear, aren’t I?” I spew bitterly.
“Will you stop it?”
“Get. Off. My. Porch.”
“We need to talk.”
Snorting, I go to close the door in his face but his hand stops it mid-push. He doesn’t cross the threshold with his feet, but he certainly traipses right over that line with the look he’s shooting me.
“I gave you a chance to talk,” I say. “And talk you did. I have every word you tossed my way burned into my memory.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care.”
His shoulders fall forward as one arm reaches for the side of his jaw and works it back and forth. He focuses on something on the ground and it reminds me of a little boy that just got in trouble at school.
Like the universe decided to let me get a glimpse into the future, a series of feelings, more than pictures, floods my senses. A little boy’s laugh rattles through my ears, the smell of baby soap so real I actually flinch. My heart twists as I can almost see a spray of blond hair and the sweetest little blue eyes—eyes that remind me a lot of the ones looking back at me.
At some point, Branch has lifted his gaze to mine and something passes between us. It’s a feeling of confusion, of fear, maybe, mixed with some kind of resolution to have our way, whatever that is.
I chalk it up to the hurricane of emotions swirling inside and the mothering vibe I’ve been trying to harness and step to the side. Without giving up any of the hostility I have for him, I let him in.
As he passes, he bows his head, and I let out a little huff for good measure. The door pops as it closes and Branch turns to face me.
“What happened to you?” I ask, motioning towards the swelling.
“I ran into something.”
“Okay,” I say, not giving him the satisfaction of pressing for details. “What do you want? You have five minutes.”
“I think we both know this is going to take more than five minutes.”
“Then you better get talking and fit in as much as you can.”
His cracked lip sticks out a little. “I would start if I knew where to begin.”
“This is my point,” I say, exhaling sharply. “You don’t even have a clue what to say, and I don’t have the time or energy to listen to you figure it out. God knows I’ve had to figure it out on my own.”
When he doesn’t respond, I give up. I walk away and into the kitchen and hope that when I turn around, he’ll be gone. Yet, when I do, he’s standing in the doorway.
“Um, how do you feel?” he asks carefully.
“Fine.”
He nods, like he’s unsure as to whether he has the authority to even ask such questions. “So, you’re doing okay?”
“Do you even care?”
“Of course I care,” he draws, his brows pulling together. “I’m not a complete asshole, Layla.”
I give him a look, one that questions that statement, and he absorbs it completely. His shoulder leans against the wall and he scoops up a deep, weighted breath. “I’m trying to do what’s right here.”
“I don’t want you to do what’s right. I don’t want you coming all the way down here, which, by the way, was totally unnecessary, and asking me how I am like I’m some kind of rabid monkey. I’m a grown woman, Branch. I’m intelligent. I’m capable. I can handle all of this and I will handle all of this. If it’s too much for you to deal with, I get it. I’m not asking you to.”
I fight the wetness welling up in my eyes, determined to not let him see me cry. He sees the break and starts to move off the doorframe but stops when I take a step back.
“This whole thing just threw me for a loop,” he says. “I just, uh, I need you to have a little patience.”
“Oh, because this is about you, right?” I scoff, turning my back to him.
The need for a hug overwhelms me, the need for someone to tell me this is going to be okay. I don’t even try to dismiss the part of my brain that screams for him to come to me and just be here, tell me he’ll be here, because it’s too loud to ignore.
As the tears I’ve been struggling to keep at bay begin their journey down my cheeks, I let myself just feel the emotions as they come my way. My back vibrates as the tears fall harder and despite knowing he’s in the same room as me, I still feel so alone.
“Can I get you something?” he asks quietly. “A drink or a towel or something?”
“No,” I sniffle, sucking up snot that’s dripped to my lip.
“Look, Layla, I’m trying to figure out what to do. I’m not . . . this kind of a guy.”
I spin around to face him with my puppy eyes and dark circles and tear-stained cheeks. If I weren’t going to get as big as a house in the next nine months and have chipmunk cheeks and an even rounder ass, I’d be embarrassed for him to see me like this. But now? It’s the least of my worries.
“Bet you’re regretting all of this, huh?” I ask, sniffling again.
He looks at the ceiling and sighs. “I had one of the best weekends of my life. It’s almost comical how many times I’ve thought about how easy it was to be with you and how much we laughed and how . . . how I could just put my guard down. Guess I put it down a little too far, huh?”
“Well, you know I was just waiting for it to drop far enough so I could trick you into having a baby.” I stop myself. “I mean, it might not even be yours, so we should really watch how we say this, huh?”
“Layla . . .”
His words from last night, the disdain on his face when I told him the news, propel into me. When I look at him again, I don’t see the handsome, sexy guy I hoped to see again. I see the guy who thinks the worst of me.
“Your five minutes are up,” I say, willing my bottom lip not to tremble.
“We haven’t worked anything out.”
“You can have your attorney send me a—”
“Layla. Stop,” he pleads.
“I want you to leave. I need to be alone,” I lie, needing the opposite so much more. “I have a lot to figure out, and I came up here to do that, and I can’t do it with you looking at me accusingly.”
“I need you to cut me some slack.”
“Cut you some slack?” I almost shout. “You act like I’m repulsive for having the nerve to get pregnant by you. You do realize I didn’t choose this, right? You do realize this wouldn’t be my choice, right? Because as amazing as you think you are and as good of a time as we had together, if I had known this is the man you really are, I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near you.”
I breeze by him and tug the door open. The fire in my eyes must shock him because he steps slowly to the front door. “Get out, Branch.”
He stops inches away from me and squares his broad, thick shoulders to mine. There’s a defiance in his narrowed gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that a couple of times.”
“I mean it.”
I put my hand on my hip and smile. “What are you sorry for?”
There’s no response, just a look that probably gets him out of most things he doesn’t want to say or do in his life.
I pull the door until it can’t get any more open. “And that’s why you’re leaving. Now.”
He storms by me, his shoes hitting the porch. The door bangs shut, putting that precious barrier between us once again. Although, this time, I hate it.