Zadie

We need to talk. PLEASE call me.

My finger hovers over the send button. Hesitating. Hesitating.

The metal sink I’m leaning on digs uncomfortably into my back. Every time the door opens, the muffled club music filters in clearly. The pumping bass mixes with my pounding pulse.

I still don’t know if texting Sean is the best idea. I’ve talked myself in and out of contacting him at least a million times. I’ve been looking for my backbone. Trying to figure out why this is so hard. Why I literally want to vomit when I imagine what his reaction might be.

Fuck.

Quickly, I delete the text, shoving the phone in my pocket and racing to the bathroom stall, just in time. Hope of my morning sickness ending is literally flushed down the toilet, along with the remnants of my dinner and the snack I had before we ventured out for the evening.

Throwing up has become something of a hobby for me—I’ve gotten pretty good at it—too bad it’s useless and disgusting. Too bad I’ve had to do it in the public restroom at work. Although, I’m very certain I’m not the first person to puke into this bowl.

Shame creeps in as I stand over the toilet, waiting to see if I can keep the sickness at bay. Despite being a coward, part of me—the good, rational part—knows contacting Sean is the right thing. That sensible side knows I need to face him. I need to get it over with. That part of me is ready to move onto the next stage of my pregnancy grief. I’m not sure what to call it, but it’s the point where I stop avoiding reality and start dealing with shit. As harsh as she was, Chante’s right. The avoidance has done nothing but create a pile of guilt.

Although the guilt over not telling Sean is minor compared to the other regret I’m feeling.

The crushing, debilitating, life altering fucking remorse.

My conscience, or maybe it’s my hormones, will never let me look at a bathtub the same way ever again. I can’t believe what happened with Caleb, but more importantly, I can’t believe the way I treated him. The way I used him.

He told me he had cancer and I brushed it off in search of my own comfort. In search of a fucking orgasm.

Cancer.

I didn’t even ask if he’s better. Is it even possible to be better after cancer? Everything we’ve talked about—people’s pity, his impulsiveness, not wanting to miss out on life. It all makes so much sense now. I can’t imagine the level of fear he must have lived through, or the kind of strength it must take to get past that.

How the fuck is he so brilliantly optimistic all the time?

All I know is that I need to fix this. It was a mistake to let things get so out of hand. Or maybe the mistake was letting things get in hand. Whatever. That orgasm was... whoa. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. I don’t know if it was his encouragement in my ear, or if it was his attention focused solely on my pleasure. Maybe it was the way he seemed to read exactly where to touch—how to touch—when to touch. Maybe it was a combination of it all. I shot off like a goddamn rocket.

Still, the fucking guilt.

“You okay in here, babe?” Chante asks from outside the stall I’ve barricaded myself in.

I’m not working tonight. Instead, I’m being tortured with a fun evening out with Chante, Caleb, and a couple of the nurses from Chante’s hospital. Of course, the whole thing was her idea, and even though I tried to get out of it, she refused to hear any of my excuses.

“If vomiting all over the place is considered okay, then yes, I’m terrific.”

“Good,” she replies, ignoring my sarcasm. “Get your ass out here, chug some mouthwash and let’s get back on the dance floor.”

“Mouthwash?” I challenge. “Where did you get mouthwash?”

“Really, Zadie, do you even need to ask? My resourcefulness shouldn’t surprise you.”

It doesn’t. Nothing about my best friend surprises me. Except her continued refusal to discuss the—annoyingly enormous—secret she’s keeping. It’s so elusive, so closely guarded, I’m starting to believe I made the whole thing up.

For a while, I thought she was embarrassed. I thought maybe she’d wanted to talk about Caleb moving in, before it happened. Except, Chante’s never embarrassed. Besides, I still catch a strange look on her face from time-to-time, and she’s still acting weird. Well, weird for Chante, she’s always a little off-beat.

She took me out for breakfast the other day. Breakfast. And it wasn’t after a night of bar hopping or right after a shift at the hospital. She woke up early just for waffles. Well, I ate waffles, she had egg whites and some weird smoothie thing that she claimed to be cleansing. The whole scenario was bizarre.

“Hand it over,” I demand as I step out of the stall, motioning to the mini bottle of mouthwash she’s dangling at me. After thoroughly swishing, rinsing, and repeating, I let Chante know, “I don’t think I’m up for any more dancing. I’m going to get dehydrated.”

“Nonsense,” she says, pulling a bottle of water out of thin air. “Just don’t act like such a spaz on the dance floor and you’ll be fine.”

“Spaz?” I ask, trailing after her as she leads the way out of the washroom.

“Yes, spaz, you know... with all the flailing you do.”

I’m about to argue with her, to tell her that I do not flail, but her attention is caught by someone else. A man I’ve never seen before beckons to her from the side of the dance floor. She flushes pink—something else I’ve never seen before—and then giggles like a schoolgirl.

What the hell?

“Sorry, babe,” she gushes over the din of the music. “I can’t say no to that one. You should go find a friend, and when I say friend, I mean Caleb. I’m going to be a while. In fact, I probably won’t come back, so don’t wait up.”

Without a second glance my way, she strides urgently toward the devilishly handsome man with golden blond hair. He watches her with an intense gaze—it’s so accusing, even though he’s not looking at me, I feel like I’m in trouble. It’s unnerving and intimidating. Even his smile is fierce. And, I realize, he is smiling—a devious but huge, blinding white smile—like he’s ecstatic to see her. The smile and the look in his eyes becomes more heated, more aggressive, the closer Chante gets.

Who is this guy?

I watch in awe as my bold, outspoken best friend turns into a creature of submission. With her head slightly bowed she approaches, and when she reaches him, waits for him to make the first move. At first he does nothing—except continue to look at her with a mix of lust and something that might be devotion. But then he speaks, or maybe he demands, and Chante visibly shudders. When he bends his head to her, she looks up to him as though in prayer. And when he roughly grasps her chin, she opens for him. Right before he devours her whole.

Holy shit.

I’m stunned. I’m also a little turned on, I won’t lie. I’ve never thought myself a voyeur, but their display is hard to ignore, and I’d have to be blind to miss how hot they are together.

Thankfully, I’m not subjected to much more. After one long, erotic kiss—his hand firmly digging into her backside, pulling her roughly into him—they leave. I might have just stood here, watching them all night, otherwise.

Maybe the pregnancy hormones are turning me into a pervert.

I don’t dwell on the thought or the scene I just witnessed. I certainly don’t want to envision the fabulous sex my bestie’s about to have. I can’t let the knowledge that she’s got a secret man work its way into my brain any further.

Guzzling my water, I decide to make my way to the lounge. The place is crowded tonight. People mingle and dance everywhere, making it difficult to get from one end of the room to the other. Normally, I’d walk the outskirts of the dance floor to get to the lounge from here, but even that path is full. So, I decide to cut straight through the middle instead.

I’m too warm. With so many gyrating bodies packed into one place, the heat feels inescapable. It doesn’t help that I’m already overheated from Chante and her mystery man’s sexy display.

When I make it past the center of the room, I let out the anxious breath I’ve been holding, just before I’m grabbed from behind. Rough, clammy hands bite into my hips, forcefully pulling me backward into a wall of smelly, sweaty man.

“Where you going?” a coarse voice taunts in my ear, the smell of alcohol wafting on his stale breath.

“Hey, Jean-Paul, aren’t you supposed to be working tonight?” I subtly dig my elbow into his gut as I attempt a respectable distance between me and his nastiness.

“You’re not the only one who gets nights off. Or don’t you think I should be allowed to have fun?” His hold doesn’t loosen as he steps to my side and peers down at me.

“Of course you should, don’t be silly.”

“So, what d’ya say? You going to grind up on me a little—help make my night really fun?”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Struggling in his hold, I push my elbow even further into his stomach, hoping he gets the message. “No, J.P. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

This is how assholes get away with molesting women in a crowd. Despite my yelling, I’m barely audible over the music. The way he’s holding me is no different than half a dozen of the couples around us. His hands dig further into my sides, making it impossible for me to go anywhere. “Oh, come on, Zee. Just one dance,” he pleads in my ear.

I’m considering how much damage my heel can do to his foot. Or his balls.

“Take your fucking hands off her, now.”

Cal.

Like a knight in shining armor, he sweeps in to save the day. Except, looking up at him, I see a man I barely recognize. He’s angry. So fucking angry. The scariest looking white knight I’ve ever seen. Anger vibrates off him in a radiant heat, projecting the strength of a million suns.

It’s glorious. He’s fucking glorious.

With him standing next to me, I’m no longer warm, I’m on fire.

The tension of his jaw. The hard veins popping in his neck. The energy of his bunched shoulders. And his eyes. God, those eyes seem to shoot flame from the shadow his long hair casts across his beautifully chiseled face. He’s burning me up with his brilliant intensity.

“What’s it to you?” Jean-Paul stupidly asks, with no regard for his own personal safety.

“She’s here with me,” Caleb grits out. “And she told you no. That’s two more reasons than you deserve or need. So, what’s it going to be?”

The grip around my waste slackens and I use the opportunity to pull away with one final punch of my elbow to his gut.

Caleb’s arm is around me in a flash, leading me away. We don’t stop. He uses his height and his lean muscle to shield me from the crowd, maneuvering me easily to the end of the dance floor and into the lounge.

“Are you okay?” he asks, once we’re standing safely away from the dancers. His arm is still slung across my shoulders in a protective gesture.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Turning into him I place my hand on his chest and look up into his stormy eyes. “Even though I could have handled him on my own, I’m really glad I didn’t have to. You made it look easy.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with dickbags like that. They shouldn’t be allowed to function.”

“Down boy,” I tease, patting his sternum lightly. “I really am fine. He’s just drunk. I still have to work with him, though. So, thank you for not punching him in the face, and for dragging me away before I could punch him in his junk.”

His arm around my shoulders flexes, pulling me in. “I didn’t like seeing you like that.” Giving into his pull, I step forward, until our bodies are almost flush. Securing my arms around his middle, I hug him softly, as he says, “I didn’t like the idea that he could hurt you.”

“He wouldn’t have—”

“Maybe not, but he could have. It’s more than that, though, Zadie... I didn’t like seeing his hands on you. Unwanted or not, I don’t like the idea of another guy touching you.”

The waiver of his voice is like a wound—painful and distressing. The strain of this friendship evident in his words, in his touch. The longing in his voice, only challenged by the ache between my thighs. He’s hard enough to resist normally. But add in his chivalry, and words that make me feel like I’m something precious. He becomes irresistible.

I’m hopeless.

So I step in even closer, squeezing my arms more firmly around him—my hands plastered to his solid frame. He squeezes me back, his mouth resting against the top of my head, and... holy fuck... his erection pressing into my stomach.

His breathing is ragged. “Zadie, the only hands I want to see on you are mine.”

“Cal, we shouldn’t.” My protest is weak. Pathetic, really. Taking a deep breath, I try to find some resolve, but all I manage to do is press my, now throbbing, breasts into him some more.

His light groan is followed by an even lighter kiss to my temple. “Are you sure?” he challenges.

I’m sure of nothing.

His mouth moves over my face, which has turned up to meet his. His lips skim over my forehead, my cheeks, and the tip of my nose. There’s a steady pounding in my chest, but I can’t tell if it’s my heart or his beating out of control.

“Well?” he asks. “Are you going to let me take you on a date? A real one? With more talking and handholding and maybe a kiss at the end of the night?”

“A kiss at the end of which night?”

“Please, quit tempting me. I swear, you’re a sadist.” I’d think he was making a joke, but there’s true pain in his expression. “I want to do this thing right, Zadie. Will you let me?”

“Cal, we —”

My feeble, final attempt to object is cut short by his mouth. It’s hot and urgent, and feels even more amazing than I remember.

For a moment, I forget. I forget about the crowd around us, I forget about the world. All I can focus on is the way his evident need for me ratchets my own desire, my own desperate need for more.

But, just for one moment.

My stomach rolls, jolting me into focus with alarming speed and efficiency. Reluctantly, I tear my mouth from his, whimpering involuntarily when the air hits my wet lips. My craving for him is far from satisfied.

Loosening my hold, I try to back away, but he doesn’t let me get far. His arm holds me in, cradling me against him.

“Say yes, Zadie,” he whispers into my ear.

“Yes?” I question.

“I can taste how much you want this, and I know you can feel how much I do. Are you going to keep denying it?”

His words, somehow erotic, send shivers racing down my spine making every hair on my body stand on end.

“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression,” he says. “When I said I didn’t want to be your friend, what I meant is that I can’t be just your friend. What happened in my bathroom was more than physical for me. I hope you know that.”

My lusted gaze turns watery, regret and rejection taking over. “Friends is all I can handle right now, Cal.”

“You mean friends is all you’re willing to trust right now. I get it, Zadie, I really do—you’ve been fucked over—but I’m not like that.”

“I know you’re not,” I quickly reassure. Of course, I know. He’s nothing like that. He’s the complete opposite. Everything about him screams safe, secure, and fucking wonderful.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I’m pregnant. That’s the problem,” I manage in a hoarse whisper that’s barely audible over the music.

“That’s not a problem.” His urgent plea, hot in my ear. “It’s a goddamn miracle. And it doesn’t change anything for me. I still want you. All of you.”

I want nothing more than to believe him. To kiss him again. To feel his desire again. To forget everything again. But the sick feeling is back. I don’t know if it’s the heat, my hormones, or the unrivaled surge of fear making me woozy.

“I can’t think right now,” I tell him honestly. Turning, I stare at the dance floor. The mass of bodies, pulsating like a single organism. “This place is making me ill.”

***

Caleb

RAGE. IT CLOUDED BOTH my vision and my judgment. When I saw that pig with his hands on Zadie, my first instinct was to protect her—even if she didn’t want me to. Even if she didn’t need me to. But somehow, that anger quickly morphed to something else entirely. A feeling I’ve even less control over.

The impulse to take her, to make her mine. Forever.

I was intoxicated by the press of her body, her arms wrapped tightly around me, and her mouth welded to mine. Drunk off her beauty. Drunk on desire.

Now, staring at her profile—beautiful and unsure—I’m hit with another urge. The distinct need to get the hell out of this club. Ditch the flashing lights. Eliminate the monotonous, restricting bass. Lose the crowd.

I want to take her away from anything and anyone who could possibly ever hurt her. For once, I don’t want to be lost in a swarm of people. I don’t care about feeding off anyone’s energy, or about staying anonymous in a crowd. All I want is Zadie.

“Let’s get out of here,” I suggest, caressing her arm.

She looks reluctant, but nods in agreement. Taking her by the hand, I maneuver us through the mass of people. We sidestep a couple of drunks who stagger into our path, quickly making our way to the exit.

I urge her to continue following me through Montreal’s underground. The sound of the up-tempo dance music slowly fading as we find our way outdoors.

Street lamps and starlight greet us as we step out onto the cobblestone sidewalk. Hand in hand we soak in the city nightlife. Even with all the shops closed and the chill of approaching winter in the air, this place is vibrant. Alive.

“Your cousin disappeared with a man,” she tells me, uneasiness in her tone.

“Is that normal for her? Actually, don’t answer that. Do you think she’s safe?”

“Yeah, I think so. They seemed to know each other extremely well, but I’ve never seen him before.”

“Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“Everything’s weird these days,” she mumbles, her hand flexing in my grip.

“Come on,” I say, pulling her toward the line of taxis parked on the street. “Let’s go.”

“Shouldn’t we tell the other girls that we’re leaving?” she stalls.

“They’re Chante’s friends, if she can leave without saying goodbye, then so can we. Besides, I doubt they’ll even notice we’re gone.”

“Okay...but where are we going?” she insists.

“On a date.”

“Wha—?” Her expression is adorable. The wrinkle of her forehead and the dramatic arch of her eyebrow remind me of the night we first met.

“I’m kidding, Zadie,” I reassure. “I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve had enough excitement for tonight. I’m taking you home.”

It’s not a long drive, and this time of night—or early morning—with little traffic on the road, it won’t take us long to get there. Still, our taxi driver seems impatient. Maybe he was hoping for a better fare and is anxious to get rid of us. Or, maybe he’s a stunt driver in his spare time. With his foot heavy on the gas, we’re barreling at dangerous speeds toward our destination.

“Would you mind slowing down a bit,” Zadie asks, her knuckles turning white as she clutches the seat.

Mumbling under his breath, I catch the tail end of the cabbie’s belligerent French curse. I’m about to repeat Zadie’s request a bit more forcefully, but the car suddenly swerves. Our driver takes an unexpected, unnecessary sharp turn. Despite her seatbelt, Zadie slides toward me. On instinct, I throw my arm across her middle, stopping her trajectory.

This asshole’s going to kill someone.

“Arrêtez!” I demand.

The driver’s eyes snap to mine in the rear-view. When he recognizes how serious I am he begins mumbling again. But this time he slows the car, eventually stopping at the curb. Zadie jumps out as soon as it’s safe.

“Twelve dollars,” he barks at me as I open my door.

“No dollars,” I tell him. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the police.”

Slamming the door, I watch as he pulls away, squealing the tires as he goes. I’m tempted to call the police anyway. Someone like that shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel, especially not for a living.

My body’s shaking as I come down from another major surge of adrenaline. I’m still contemplating a call to the police when I hear Zadie crying. Turning, I’m prepared to apologize, to comfort her, but her tears aren’t what I expect. She’s not crying, she’s laughing.

Full-on hysterics.

“What the hell?”

“I don’t know which was scarier,” she manages between outbursts. “His driving, or your face.” She wipes at her tears with one hand, while holding her stomach with the other.

“What’s scary about my face?”

“You’re all...” She attempts to mimic my expressions, but only ends up laughing harder.

“A thank you would be nice,” I joke, stepping close beside her. My arm joins hers, wrapped around her middle. “I just saved your life.”

She breathes deeply, her laughter quickly dying as she laces her fingers with mine. Drying the last of her tears on the sleeve of her sweater, she peers up at me. Humor lights her mascara smudged eyes, her lips twitching at the corners.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For saving me.”

She turns me inside out, and she doesn’t even know it. My irrational, impulsive need to be her savior, fulfilled by the sincerity of her sweet voice.

“Not just you,” I whisper, moving our joined hands lower on her stomach.

Her eyes widen on a silent gasp, the humor long gone.

“You okay to walk the rest of the way?” I ask.

Clearing her throat, she tugs away from my grip. “Yeah. Absolutely, yeah.”

“Even in those heels?”

Looking down at the flashy red, stilettos on her feet she smiles. “I love these shoes. I could walk for miles in them.”

We travel the remaining blocks quietly, calmly. Both of us seem lost in our own thoughts. The only sounds are traffic and Zadie’s heels, clicking on the cement. I don’t mind the peacefulness, but part of me is still desperate to know exactly what she’s thinking. Am I taking up as much space in her thoughts as she is in mine?

By the time we make it to our building, her pace has slowed considerably. The shoes she loves so dearly, hobbling her steps. If I thought she’d allow it, I’d offer to carry her. I’d love nothing more than to sweep her off her feet.

The elevator’s waiting at the ground floor. “Are you willing to get on this thing with me?” I joke.

Zadie simply smiles, shuffling into the car. She doesn’t notice when I press the button for my floor, but not hers. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes.

As usual, the elevator creaks and groans as it starts its ascent. Turning away from the bank of controls, I face her. Despite the traumas of the evening, she looks content.

Beautiful, as always.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” she murmurs, her eyes still closed.

“I was thinking about it.” I’m tempted. So tempted. “But maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

Lifting her soft brown eyes to mine, she whispers, “Why not?”

Why not? It’s hard to rationalize, hard to remember, when I’m engulfed by an inferno caused by her lazy, lustful stare.

“Because friends don’t kiss each other,” I remind her, my voice straining with need. “And, I believe you said, really good friends know how to pretend they don’t want to.”

“Hmm...” She smiles. “I did say that.”

“You did.”

The elevator grinds to a halt and the doors slide open. I take her hand again, pulling her with me to my apartment. My goddamn unlocked apartment. I swear, I’m going to tie a key around Chante’s neck.

It’s not until we’re stepping over the threshold that she decides to object. Tugging back on my hand, she asks, “What are we doing?”

“Nothing inappropriate, friend, don’t worry. We’re going to sleep.”

Winning our tug-of-war, I make sure to turn the deadbolt before leading Zadie to my room.

“You want me to sleep here? With you?”

Standing at the end of the bed, I pull her gently into my arms. “Yes. I want you here. With me. It’s purely selfish. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re somewhere safe.”

Doubt creases her forehead. “And you think this is where I’ll be safest?”

“One hundred percent.” I kiss her lightly on the top of her head before grabbing my sweats and a T-shirt for her.

“You can use the washroom first,” I offer.

She groans, “I’ll use Chante’s, thanks.”

My laugh is interrupted by my own pained groan when I enter my bathroom and see the tub. It mocks me—the perfect porcelain finish reminding me of Zadie’s smooth skin and the way I touched her.

She seems to take forever, so long, in fact, I almost go looking for her. But, just when I’m convinced she’s sneaked out to her own place, she shyly reappears at my bedroom door.

My T-shirt hits an inch above her knees. Her bare knees. She’s holding my borrowed sweat pants at her side, her pale, thick thighs peeking out from the hem of the shirt.

“Maybe I should sleep in Chante’s room, or on the couch,” she suggests.

“Why would you do that?” I scoff, walking to her and taking the unused pants from her hand. “That would defeat the purpose of having a sleep over.”

“So, that’s what this is now? A slumber party? Are we going to braid each other’s hair, too?”

“Don’t be silly.” Tossing the pants aside, I guide her toward my bed. “We’re way too old for that nonsense. We can tell ghost stories instead.”

With a giant, tired smile she gives in. We both climb into the bed, cautious and respectful of each other’s space. Too much space.

I want nothing more than to pull her into me. I want to feel her head nestled on my chest, and have her body spread over mine. But I don’t want to take the risk of pushing her away again.

Lamenting the strip of empty mattress between us, I allow her to keep a respectable distance.

“Thanks for staying.” Daring to cross the divide, I reach out and take her hand in mine again.

“I feel safer already,” she says on a heavy, yet satisfied sounding sigh.

I can’t tell if she’s joking or not—she’s already half-asleep. It doesn’t matter. I feel better, having her here. Even if she is still too far away.

We fall asleep holding hands, the warmth of her palm, heating my heart.

***

Zadie

I’M WOKEN BY A low rumbling moan. Like a distant thunder, the sound rolls up my spine, erupting softly in my ear. Cal’s arm is tightly banded around me, his hardening length pressed up against my ass. When he shifts, growling out another stormy sound, my body responds. A lightning strike of heat courses through me, flaring bright between my legs.

He feels so good, curled around me. And I feel good, having him there.

He settles and so does my foggy, sleep thirsty brain. The flames reduce to smoldering embers. Burrowing into the pillow, I’m ready to give myself over to the warm lure of slumber. Until Caleb shifts again. All his taut, lean muscles rub against me. His hand—talented, steady, and soothing—lazily caresses up my stomach, landing firmly on my breast.

This time, the noise that wakes me is my own. I can’t help the whispered gasp of pleasure. The fire inside me roars back to life, flames licking my center.

One light, squeezing palm of my breast and I’m set to shatter. An insurmountable craving grows. I need to feel his hands roaming over me, in me. It won’t take much, just a bit of friction—the flick of his thumb, or the pinch of his fingers.

God. I feel so desperate.

What was it he said last night? He wanted to keep me safe? I have no idea what harm he thought he was protecting me from, but I’d played his game of rescuing hero—he earned it.

But this is not safe.

This is the most dangerous place I could possibly be. Very bad things are begging to happen. Begging me to make them happen. Very good, very bad things.

With a stealth barely possessed, and rarely used, I slowly extricate myself from his hold. Rolling off the mattress, I’m careful not to make noise as my feet hit the floor. Collecting last night’s offered sweat pants and my senses, I quietly find my way to his bedroom door.

For the second time, and hopefully the last, I squash my guilty conscience as I sneak away. I leave Caleb asleep in his bed. This time, I spit in hope’s face and I don’t look back as I flee.

Less than two hours later, I’m showered, dressed and staring at my phone. The text I’d thought about sending Sean last night reappears as I type out my plea for him to call.

We need to talk. PLEASE call me.

Once again, I’m reluctant to send it.

Why am I begging him? Where the hell is my spine? I’ve been so intent on the mistakes I’ve made. So worried about how he’ll react to the news, so concerned about the role he will or won’t want to play in the life of my child. I’ve forgotten, he’s just as responsible as I am, if not more so. I shouldn’t be begging, I should be fucking demanding. I’m the one who should be calling the shots.

I hit delete, then hastily rewrite the message.

We need to talk. Call me, ASAP.

No more second guessing or doubt. I hit send on that fucker faster than he walked out my door. No more regret. In its place, conviction. I’m moving forward with my life, regardless of his decisions. Regardless of my mistakes.

With that same confident conviction, I finish off my enormous bottle of water and head back to Chante’s.

Letting myself into her apartment, I try in vain to keep my courage in place. I’m here for a purpose. No matter what happened last night, or any of the nights before, I won’t let my confused feelings over Caleb derail me.

Today’s an important day. My first ultrasound. Chante better hold my hand extra-tight because, despite my determination, I’m an anxious mess.

It’s not until I hit the living room that I realize how quiet it is. Eerily quiet. Despite knowing the futility of my actions, I race into Chante’s bedroom. I’m hoping she’s just asleep, but I find nothing other than her rumpled bedsheets and dirty laundry.

Where the hell is she? Did she stay out all night? Did she forget about me?

Anxiously pacing, I forget to be quiet as I check my phone for a missed call or text. My thoughts race with concerns for Chante, and worry for how late I’m going to be to my appointment.

“Hey,” Caleb says, stumbling from his room as he sleepily rubs his eyes. “What time is it?” he asks.

His hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, his T-shirt’s wrinkled, and his pillow’s still imprinted on his cheek. Even straight out of bed he’s handsome, maybe more so—especially with his bare feet.

Why do I find them so damn sexy?

Beads of moisture begin collecting at my hairline and under my arms. A combination of nerves, hormones, and thoughts of this morning, turn me into a flushed, hot mess.

“Chante isn’t here. I’ve got go. Ultrasound technicians don’t wait around on the whims of sweaty pregnant women. I’m going to have to take the Metro. I’m going to have to go without her. On my own,” I ramble.

“Slow down,” he soothes. “When do you have to be there?”

“Half an hour. Oh, God. I’m going to be late, and I really need to pee. They make you drink a shit-ton of water—so much water—it can’t be healthy.”

“I’ll take you,” he says.

My rambling is cut short, although—now that I’ve thought of it—the urge to pee is growing. “What?”

“Let me change and then we can go.”

“No. You can’t do that.”

“Of course, I can. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not taking a bus to your ultrasound. If you’re going to leak urine in any vehicle, it’s going to be mine.” His smile is a heartwarming, panty-melter that leaves me in a stupor.

I can’t believe how willing he is to help me, despite everything. For a moment, I feel shameful—this whole ambiguous situation is my fault, after all. If it weren’t for my fear of bad choices and my inability to control my hormones, things between us wouldn’t be so grey.

Except he’s the one who shoved my offer of friendship back in my face. He’s the one who showed up at my workplace and flirted with another girl, in front of me. A beautiful girl, far more suitable for him, in both age and lack of baby than I could ever be. He’s the one who pursued me. He’s the one who cleaned up after me, saved me, kissed me... and so much more.

Screw this. Screw my nerves. Screw Caleb for making me feel irrationally guilty. Screw Chante for making me worry. Screw Sean for leaving me. Screw it all!

“You better hurry up,” I yell to him. “If you keep me waiting any longer you won’t need to worry about your car’s upholstery. I’m going to lose it here on your carpet.”

We make it to the clinic with less than a minute to spare.

The waiting room is quiet, except for the murmur of the television and the intermittent rustling of magazine pages. We’re surrounded by bellies of various sizes. Happy, glowing, pregnant women with partners who all look equally delighted.

My lack of a large, protruding middle makes me feel like an impostor. Other than my neglected skinny jeans, which I can no longer zip, I’m the only one who’s noticed the difference in my size. With my clothes on, it’s next to impossible to tell I’m pregnant at all.

At least I’m not here on my own. I’ve got a dazzling looking man at my side. He’s not the one who made my trip here necessary, but at least he got me here on time. Besides, he’s just as attentive, just as caring, and way hotter than all the other men here.

Even though we made it on time we’re still forced to wait. It must be an unspoken rule of health care—no appointment shall ever start on schedule. Each minute ticking by forces my anxiety up a notch. My screaming bladder is magnified by my jitters. I’m almost as nervous as I was when I first peed on the damn stick. If it weren’t for the calm man beside me, lending me his relaxed vibe, I’d probably be a total basket-case.

“Zadie Fisher?” A friendly looking woman wearing scrubs calls my name.

On shaking legs, I stand to follow her. My nervous stomach rolling with the movement.

Caleb stands as well.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Being your friend,” he whispers back.

When I refuse to budge—confusion and anxiety likely clear in my expression—he insists, “What? You didn’t really think I’d let you do this alone, did you? You should know me better than that by now, Zadie.”

He’s right. I should have known. He’s been nothing but reliable and giving from the day we first me. Far too reliable. Oh, so fucking giving.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s do this.”

The technician turns to us as we enter the room. “I’m Suzanne, I’ll be performing your scan today.” Her smile is genuine, calming me, just a little. “Is your bladder full?” she asks, closing the door.

“Uncomfortably so,” I tell her.

Ignoring my hinted plea, she instructs, “You can hop up on the exam table. I’ll need you to undo your pants, or move them down. I’ll need access to your lower pelvis.” Turning to Caleb she says, “Dad, there’s another stool you can wheel over, if you’d like to sit.”

“Oh, Caleb’s not the baby’s father,” I blurt, cringing as stress turns me into a callous sounding bitch.

“I’m the moral support.” His words are easy and undisturbed.

“My apologies, I shouldn’t have assumed.” Thankfully, Suzanne’s a professional and, unlike me, knows how to act like one. “You can sit or stand, it’s up to you,” she tells him. “We’ll get things started.”

Modesty has no place in a medical setting, especially knowing how much more probing I’ll undergo over the coming months. But laying on the table with my pants slung low and my shirt pushed tight under my breasts, I feel exposed. It reminds me too much of being naked, covered in nothing but bubbles, with Caleb sitting close beside me. Only now, there’s a pretty nurse watching us, and I’m lying on a table that has detachable stirrups.

Caleb moves up to the table and leans into my space, with his arm resting beside my bare stomach. I force myself to concentrate on Suzanne as she expertly maneuvers the cart with the ultrasound machine.

“This will be a little chilly,” she warns, as the ice-cold gel hits my bloated abdomen.

I barely register the sticky cool slide of the wand as she spreads the gel—my mind is racing. Am I horrible for not trying to contact Sean sooner? Can I yell at Chante for ditching me? Is Caleb moving closer, or is that my imagination?

But then Suzanne flicks a switch and presses the wand firmly against my pelvis. All my thoughts and worries fade. The screen turns from a black void, to a black void with a weird looking fuzzy blob in the middle. Suzanne turns a few dials, the room filling with the sounds of radio static.

Continuing to move the wand, she adds more pressure to her touch. “That’s the edge of your uterus.” She twists the wand, digging in just a little more. Suddenly the noise turns from strange static to a fast whooshing sound. Like something you’d expect to hear on a boat sonar.  “And that,” she says, holding the wand steady. “Is your baby.”

My hand flies to the edge of the exam table. Caleb’s arm is there, and I grab onto him, holding on for dear life. His other hand moves to cover mine. Gentling my death grip, he laces our fingers together, holding my hand in both his own.

“Is that the heartbeat?” he asks reverently.

“Yes,” Suzanne beams at us, “Pretty neat, isn’t it?”

“It’s amazing,” he replies.

His words aren’t sufficient—but no words could be. Nothing can be said that would be meaningful enough. Nothing can capture the importance of this moment, or that sound. I’m riding an emotional tidal wave that I hope never crests—it’s an indescribable high.

“See,” Suzanne directs our attention to the screen. “This is the head, that’s an arm, and a leg.”

Looking at the tiny image on screen, it’s hard to determine exactly what it is that I’m looking at. It’s either a weird sea creature or an alien. The head is evident, but that’s about it. “Is that a tail?” I wonder out loud, not sure if I should laugh or cry.

“No sweetie, it’s probably the edge of the umbilical cord. Don’t worry. Everything looks normal.” As she moves the wand the heartbeat fades, getting lost amongst the static noise.

Laughing quietly, Caleb squeezes my hand tighter, his other hand moving up and down my arm in a gentle caress.

I stare at the picture, now frozen on the screen. Suzanne wipes the gel off my belly and continues reassuring me that my fetus is indeed human. It’s surreal—that funny looking thing is going to be a little person.

My little person.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until Caleb reaches up and brushes a tear off my cheek. The screen goes black and I turn to look at him.

Cal.

His eyes hold mine, his smile brilliant and full of joy.

“I’m so happy. You have no idea,” I tell him, still in awe of the tiny creature living inside me.

“I think I have a bit of an idea,” he says, running his fingers down the side of my wet cheek.

Suzanne hands me a tissue. “With the estimated date of your last period, and these measurements, I’d say we can safely confirm the due date set by your doctor. May nineteenth, right?”

“Yes, May nineteenth,” I confirm.

“That puts you at eleven weeks,” Caleb says, counting correctly.

I can’t believe it’s already been so long. How is it possible that so much has happened in such a short period of time? Was it really only nine weeks ago that I met the sweet, wonderful man who’s holding my hand and beaming at my happiness?

Fuck, nine weeks ago I was drinking my face off in a bar, lamenting the loss of the prick who knocked me up. A jerk who still doesn’t know he’s going to be a dad.

“Something wrong?” Suzanne asks, seeing the panic on my face.

“What effect does binge drinking have on a baby?”

“That’s probably a conversation you should have with your doctor, but I definitely wouldn’t condone drinking during pregnancy.” She does a good job of hiding her disgust, but there’s still a bite to her tone. It’s unmistakable.

She probably thinks I’m a drunk. A drunk tramp, most likely.

“I think what Zadie actually wants to know, is what kind of harm a single night of drinking might cause. Before she knew she was pregnant,” Caleb clarifies.

“Oh,” Suzanne looks to me, her brow smoothing, her tone easing. “You should still talk to your obstetrician. But from personal experience I can tell you that a lot of women have been in similar situations. Your baby’s made it this far, chances are good it’s a hearty little bundle.”

“That makes sense,” Cal says.

I’m glad it makes sense to him, maybe he can explain it all to me later. My mind’s busy compiling a list of all the inadvertently stupid things I’ve done to put this baby at risk. A tiny sea-alien that has no choice but to live with the consequences of the decisions I’ve made.

Poor, ity-bity, ugly sea-alien.

The emotional overload reduces me to a pile of jittery limbs and shaky breathing. My ultra-full bladder’s crying for relief.

Without bothering to adjust my pants, I sit up and try to scramble off the table. Caleb’s immediately there to help me. Leaning on him, I hop down to the floor, making sure my wobbly legs are really going to hold me before I let him go. I wish I could lean on him forever, just wrap myself in his hold and stay there. Something about the way his hands clasp onto my sides. The way he bends to support me. The way he watches me with intent. All makes me believe he’d be happy with that too.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Not really,” I answer honestly.

“Bathroom’s that way,” Suzanne tells me, reading my discomfort. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll leave your pictures with Caleb, in reception.”

“I’ll be there, waiting,” he confirms.

Of course he will. He’s strong, dependable, a great kisser—why wouldn’t he be there? I haven’t scared him off yet. He’s stuck around. Despite my drunken assault, my uncontrolled sweating, and all my unintended flirting. He just sat through a doctor’s visit, staring at another man’s baby like it was the best thing he’d ever seen.

Why couldn’t I have met him before Sean?

Why is he so damn good?

And why, oh why, can’t I let him go?