Chapter 33
January 2008
Zach
“I wanted to offer you and your husband congratulations on your pregnan–”
“She ain’t my wife.” I snap out a little too harshly if the look on the doctor’s face says anything about it.
Bex giggles and slaps my hand playfully, “Oh, Dr. Hughes, don’t pay any attention to grumpy pants. He’s uber tired from getting us all moved into our new apartment.”
I roll my eyes but don’t say anything else. I just want to see my baby and get the fuck out of here. I’ve got a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle with my name on it and a date with my video game console.
Dr. Hughes nods her head but eyes me with disappointment. Trust me, doc, ain’t nobody in this world more disappointed in me than me.
“Okay, Rebecca, go ahead and lay back and place your feet here–” A long arm with a pedal-looking thing on the end springs out of the end of the table. Bex puts her foot in one and then the other when it pops out of nowhere.
The doctor rolls in between her legs and holds a giant plastic stick, and she begins smearing goo all over. What the fuck?
“As we discussed on the phone, the baby is usually only visible this early in pregnancy by an internal ultrasound. This wand will be going inside your vagina so we can take a peek inside your cervix. You may feel some discomfort, but there should be no pain. Let me know if you need a break. ”
Bex nods, and the doctor shoves the stick right up her hoo-ha. Damn. Being a woman must suck ass.
I watch the black-and-white screen, and when the little white blob pops up, I wonder if I’m looking at Bex’s clit or something. What is that?
“That, sir, is your baby,”
“That?” I ask incredulously, pointing at the faceless white spot. Does it have a fucking tail? What kind of Sci-Fi shit is going on in this office?
“Yes. Let’s get some measurements of the fetus and see how far along you are. Would you like to take home some pictures?”
Bex nods enthusiastically while I still stare, dumbfounded, at the screen.
The doctor fiddles with some buttons on the keyboard attached to the baby screen, “You are measuring eight weeks. That will put your due date at August 28th.”
A fluttering, staticky thumping fills the exam room. “The heartbeat looks good and strong.”
Heartbeat? That’s my baby’s heart I’m hearing?
Bex latches on to my hand, “That’s our peanut, Zachy.” I’m so enraptured by the sweet melody of my baby’s life force that I don’t even scold her for calling me that retched nickname.
Suddenly, I’m transported eight months ago.
Our hands are interlocked, resting on her bare chest. I stare at the flickering of the fireplace. The lush strands of the Persian rug cradles our bodies in the finest wool. Maybe it’s the fact that I just took her raw for the first time, but the thought of my baby growing in her belly fills me with a sense of pride. I gently glide our joined hands from her chest down to her soft, supple belly. My forefinger traces imaginary patterns on the tender flesh below.
“You know I’m gonna put a baby in here one day, right, Little Bit?”
She huffs out a laugh, her eyes still coated in that after multiple orgasm bliss, “Mmm, sure, yeah. First, we’ll get married at the top of Sky Ridge– obviously, then I’ll just run around your parent’s mansion, barefoot and pregnant, making pickle-stuffed cinnamon rolls.”
My face twists in disgust, and I playfully jerk my head back from her, “Pickle-stuffed what? That’s fuckin’ nasty, girl. Why the hell would you do that?”
She shrugs a shoulder and smirks at me, “I dunno, don’t pregnant women like pickles on everything? They have weird ass cravings and shit. Are you judging my imaginary pregnancy needs?!” she cries in fake outrage.
Before she can even make a squeak of protest, I roll her on top of me. Our naked bodies gliding against each other. Instantly, I get hard. She does that to me.
She rests her chin on the tops of her locked hands on my chest, looking at me with affection and tenderness. Looking back at her eyes, I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of connection. In this moment, words seem inadequate. It’s as if our souls are communicating in their own language, tracing the contours of each other’s essence with the depth of our bond and love.
I lift my head to place a gentle kiss on her lips. The sleepy, satisfied smile she gives in return buries itself in the deep recesses of my being. I vow to myself to always keep that same smile on her face.
“I’m gonna marry you one day, sweetheart.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I’m gonna watch you waddle around, pregnant with my son, apparently makin’ pickle-stuffed cinnamon rolls, and count my lucky stars that some dipshit fucked up with you, causin’ you to stumble into my life.”
“Son? How do you know it will be a boy?” she laughs and swats at my prediction.
“I just know. The first one will be a boy, the protector. The next two will be girls, and then one more boy.”
“Four?! You want four kids? Are you pushing them out of your vagina?”
“We’ll start with one and go from there. How does that sound?” I coo while I run my hands lightly down her sides and cup her ass.
“One sounds good. One little jellybean to start.” She responds, pressing her pelvis against mine. Looks like we are both up for the next round.
“One little jellybean, it is. I can’t wait to call you Little Mama. Let’s get a practice round in right now.”
“Zachy?” Reality rips me, kicking and screaming, out of the memory. It’s supposed to be Charlotte on this table. Belly swollen with my baby. Our little jellybean, not a fucking peanut. My teeth grind against each other as I ignore her and the judgy looks from Doctor Hughes.
“When can a paternity test be done?” I grit out the question, not bothering to look at the hurt expression that comes across Bex’s face.
Professional mask back on, Doctor Hughes doesn’t show any outward judgment to my question, “We suggest waiting until ten to twelve weeks. You can schedule it with the front desk on your way out.”
She hands Bex the little envelope with the pictures and due date and says her goodbyes so Bex can get dressed, and we can get the fuck out of here.
* * *
The South Carolina air whips across my face, and the glassiness of the lake breaks in soft ripples as the breeze glides across it. Reaching down to the ground, I pick up a handful of small pebbles. Tossing them into the still waters one by one, the concentric rings spreading wider and wider with each toss.
A perfect representation of my life. Spreading wider and wider out of my control until it’s completely unrecognizable.
Footsteps against the gravel behind me alert me to an intruder of the only fucking free time I’ve had since Bex and I got to my grandparent’s estate. I’ve been a forced occupant of many wedding planning meetings over the last five days we’ve been here.
Cakes. Flowers. Colors. Theme. Tux. Wedding Party. Seating charts. Meals. Beverages…
Mee-maw popped me a good one when I asked the wedding planner what theme goes best with the death of my life as I know it when I’m being forced to marry a girl I had a drunken one-night stand with and managed to knock her up.
“Hey, Pretty Boy,” Morgan softly jests, bumping her shoulder against mine.
I nod in response, not taking my eyes off the lake. The moment I break the connection with my current distraction, I have to be back in the reality of the now, and that’s not where I like to spend my time these days. I toss another pebble with more force than the ones before it, causing a quick rippling of the surface.
“I just finished the fitting for my best woman tux. Who the fuck picks brown as an accent color for a wedding?” she asks with distaste coating her words. Morgan is never one to hide exactly how she feels. She says what she thinks, and that’s that.
“The bride thought it would be a good way to incorporate the muted tones of the South Carolina winter grounds and the rust that clings to the branches surroundin’ the altar along the lake.” I regurgitate the words I’ve heard repeatedly over the last three days.
Morgan snorts, “Wow. You really fucking hate this, don’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Any way I can talk you out of it?”
“Nope.”
“Have you gotten the paternity test results back yet?”
“Nope.” Jesus Christ, we just sent them out yesterday. How quickly does she think this shit happens? They told us it’ll be two weeks before we get the results back.
“Are you going to be a miserable fuck-shit this whole weekend?”
“Yup.”
“So, when’s the big day?”
“The 31st.”
“Isn’t that…” Morgs’ question trails off. I’ve been drunkenly bitching about missing the one-year anniversary of becoming official with Charlotte during our phone calls for the last month. She’s heard it so much that clearly, she’s committed the date to memory.
“Yup.”
“Uh. Why would you choose that date to get married?”
I swallow the insta-rage that fills my body. I didn’t choose any of this. I mean, technically, I did, but my hand is being forced. I’m being extorted into this, there’s a fucking difference.
“Apparently, it’s the only date that works with the bride’s family’s schedule,” I explain, the suspicion entwined in my answer laid out clearly for her .
I think she’s eavesdropped on my conversations and wants to lay some kind of claim over the date that is so near to my heart and fucking ruin it.
Bex can’t stand the fact that I don’t love her. I don’t want to be with her. Outside of a few blowjobs while I was drunk out of my mind and could picture a different blonde with her head in my lap, I don’t fucking touch her.
The only reason any of this is happening is because of that baby inside her body. She’s an incubator. If I could take the child at birth and dismiss Bex out of our lives, I totally would. Maybe Papaw could offer her some money to fuck off… No, he wouldn’t do that. His “image” is too important. Clearly more important than my fucking happiness.
A muted sound of liquid sloshing breaks my connection with the lake, and I look over at Morgs. She holds out a glass bottle filled halfway with bronze liquid, shaking it from left to right in a taunt. My mouth waters at the sight.
“Okay then, how bout we get fucked off our faces and play some video games?”
I turn and snatch the bottle out of her hand, pulling the top off and taking a large pull, “Yup, let’s do that.” I declare as we jet off to the guest house that Bex and I have been staying in.