Chapter 14 Warren
FOURTEEN
WARREN
No.
This is a nightmare.
A sick fucking nightmare I’m mentally shaking myself to wake up from as I stumble back toward the party.
The double doors swing open, revealing the mingling wedding guests and happy newlyweds in the center of the room. Music filters through the speakers, barely audible. All I hear is Harriet’s soft voice.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
She’s pregnant.
With my baby.
The truth shone bright in her eyes, hollowing me from the inside out.
A chill runs down my spine. Sweat slicks every inch of my skin. The collar of my shirt cuts off my airway.
I’m absolutely fucking petrified to my core.
In fight-or-flight situations, I’m always the former, never one to withdraw. I throw myself headfirst, regardless of the risks.
Not today. Not after her confession spilled from her lips.
I’m not equipped to handle this. Behind the veil of terror, guilt festers in my gut at abandoning her, but had I stayed a second longer, I would’ve said something I regretted.
Marcus catches my eye across the room. He raises a glass toward me, wearing his usual smirk, but it slips when he notices my expression. Subtly, he jerks his chin toward the glass doors leading to the patio.
I weave my way through the crowd, ignoring their smiles and jolly greetings.
Outside, I gulp down the frosty air, welcoming the sharp prickle in my lungs.
Marcus follows closely behind. Before he can ask what’s wrong, I snatch the glass from his hand and down the contents. The burn of whiskey somewhat numbs the swirling panic.
“Talk to me,” he says carefully. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Haven’t I?
The words can’t form. They stick to the roof of my mouth, tar-like and thick.
“Warren.” Marcus’s tone turns worried. “You’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”
“She’s having a baby,” I rasp and collapse onto one of the wrought-iron chairs. The legs scrape across the concrete, drawing the attention of a few people smoking under the pergola.
“Who is?” He lowers into the opposite seat.
“The wedding singer.” I stare vacantly at the manicured lawns, dark and ominous now that the sun’s set.
My response feeds his confusion, and a firm grip on my arm pulls me from my trance. “You’re not making any sense.”
I exhale. “I know her. We met at Ben’s bachelor party and spent the night together.”
Marcus’s eyes widen a fraction. “And the baby is…”
“Mine.” There’s an edge to my tone as a trickle of denial seeps in. I’ve no reason not to believe Harriet. I simply don’t want to. “She told me in the restroom, and she’s keeping it.”
He inhales slowly. “You ran?”
I don’t respond, confirming his suspicions. He knows me better than most.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, man. What’s going through your head?”
Chaos. Turmoil. Pain.
“I fucking left her. She told me she was pregnant, and I fucking left her.” My shoulders curl inward, elbows propped on my knees. “Like a coward.”
“You’re not a coward,” Marcus replies undoubtedly. “Do you know for certain? She has to be, what, nearly three months along by now? Why is she only telling you now?”
Guilt unfurls in my stomach. “We didn’t exchange numbers or last names.”
In the half day spent with Harriet, it was clear she’s a genuine, truthful woman. Vulnerability radiated off her as she stood before me and spoke those two words.
I’m pregnant.
“Did you at least get her number before you left?”
“Harriet. Her name is Harriet. And no.” I shake my head and curse. “She’s probably left by now. Jesus, what am I supposed to do?”
Which is exactly when a heavenly sound floats from inside the venue, gliding through the evening air like velvet. My head whips toward the building.
She didn’t leave.
“Do what you need to do. I’ll keep everyone distracted, but maybe wait until she’s finished working.” He clasps me by the shoulder. “You’ll do the right thing, man.”
The right thing would be to distance myself far, far away from Harriet.
Our paths were meant to cross once. Now, I’m standing at a crossroads, with two options, neither feeling like the correct route.
I should step up, support her, and do what’s expected of me, but a small voice in my head says I’m the last person she should be relying on, let alone bringing a child into the world with.
After collecting myself, and no less sure what to do, we head inside.
The guests are seated again, their attention drawn to the stage and the woman sitting front and center.
I’m forced to watch her perform. Credit where credit is due, she’s spectacular, not once missing a note.
Here I am, barely able to hold my glass of water without the contents spilling onto the tablecloth I’m shaking so much.
My sister joins us, a sleepy Freddie on her hip.
Diana nudges her husband, who takes their son and arranges him on his lap, his thumb stuck in his mouth and clutching his dad’s suit jacket. Marcus strokes Freddie’s hair until he falls asleep.
It usually doesn’t bother me; now, I can’t stand to watch the father and son.
“She’s incredible, isn’t she?” my sister observes. “Lilah said her name is Harriet, and she performs at all kinds of events. Maybe we should book her for Mom and Dad’s anniversary party?”
“She isn’t available.” My stiff reply is lost in the chorus.
Harriet’s voice rises high above the light chatter, drowning out the roaring in my ears. I’m so lost in my head and her sultry vocals, the sudden applause from the audience jolts me out of my stupor.
“Thank you so much. Huge congratulations to the beautiful newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor.” Her eyes find mine. “My name is Harriet Thomas. Don’t be strangers.”
Then, she disappears from the stage.
I jump from my seat, only to collide right into another guest, who spills red wine all over the front of my dress shirt.
My apology is thrown over my shoulder as I scramble toward the stage, head whipping left and right.
Everyone is standing now, blocking my path, either making a move for the bar or to chat to the bride and groom.
Annoyance coils around me.
“Warren! Warren!” I turn to the sound of my name and find my mom waving me over. “Quickly.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I seethe under my breath. I can’t ignore my mother, and hopefully, Harriet hasn’t gone far.
When I approach my mom, she’s clutching one of the server’s hands between a napkin, the white linen spotted with blood.
“Someone smashed a glass, and she cut herself. Could you check it?” She smiles warmly at the young girl. “My son is an EMT and is very good at his job. He’ll help you and let you know if you need stitches.”
There’s zero saying no now—not that I would anyway. With urgent speed, I locate the first aid kit, uncover the wound to find it’s not a deep cut, and cover it with Steri-Strips after cleaning it.
“No need for you to go to urgent care. Try to keep it dry for a few days, and if it starts to swell, itch, or show any signs of infection, get it checked out.” I stand, already backing away.
“Wear a glove if you have to finish your shift. Now, can you tell me where the woman singing before would’ve gone? ”
My mom’s eyebrows arch.
The server prods at her hand. “She’s probably packing up. You might find her in the staff breakroom, but I think one of the tech guys is helping load her car.”
“Where’s the breakroom?” I snap impatiently.
“Through there. You might have already missed her. She seemed in a hurry.”
I fucking bet. I don’t acknowledge my mom’s curious gaze; those questions will have to wait.
My shoes aren’t made for running, yet I pump my arms and legs out of the room into a narrow corridor.
The breakroom is empty. Back in the corridor, the emergency exit door swings shut, and I sprint toward it and out into the cold evening.
A middle-aged man saunters across the parking lot.
“Hey, have you seen a woman out here? Blue dress. Blonde hair. She was singing.”
“Oh, Harriet? You just missed her.” He points at a set of taillights disappearing into the night.
“Fuck!” I throw my head back, staring up at the stars.
Marcus is right. I will do the right thing, even if it kills me, because you can’t kill a man who died years ago.