13. A Stranger in the Lobby #2
Her quiet rejection was worse than if she had screamed. If she had yelled, it would have meant she still cared enough to be furious. This total indifference showed me exactly what I had broken.
I let my arms drop to my sides. I kept my boots planted on the pavement, letting the sun beat down on my neck without raising a hand to block the glare. I was going to stand here and take whatever penalty she handed down. I had earned every single ounce of it.
“I know I don’t deserve an invitation,” I said. “But please, just let me stand in the back of the room so I can see the monitor.”
Ruby let out a harsh scoff, but I kept my eyes locked on Sutton. I wasn’t trying to negotiate or demand. I was begging. I just wanted proof that the child I had abandoned was safe.
Sutton didn’t flinch. She took her time adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder.
“You made your choice the night you let Blaire take my place,” she said.
The memory of that miserable dinner flashed in my mind, the blinding camera strobes burning my eyes.
“You can wait inside the clinic, or go back to your motel,” Sutton continued, making it clear the conversation was over. “But you won’t be seeing the baby today.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Sutton’s spine stiffened before she turned her back on me. She walked through the glass entrance doors, with Ruby sticking close to her side to block me out. I didn’t waste time arguing on the asphalt. I followed them, pulling the door open.
The air conditioning inside the lobby was freezing. The overwhelming smell of antiseptic hung in the air. I stopped just past the entrance mat. The linoleum floors gleamed under the overhead lights. The fixture near the corner buzzed.
Sutton was already moving. She disappeared down the central corridor without a single backward glance. I just stood there, staring at the empty hallway. I took a step forward, my boots scuffing against the floor, intending to at least stand outside the examination room.
A woman in scrubs stepped out from behind the front reception desk. She moved directly into the center of the hallway, raising her hand to block my path.
“I just need to stand in the hallway,” I said, my voice tight. “I won’t go in the room.”
“Excuse me, sir, but the back hallway is strictly for patients and authorized support partners,” the receptionist said. Her tone was polite, but she planted herself in my way. “I need you to sign the guest registry to remain in the lobby.”
I froze. A few days ago, in London, I walked past velvet ropes and private security cordons without breaking stride. Entire hotel floors were cleared out just so I could ride an elevator in silence. Now, I was standing in a small coastal clinic, barred from the one room in the world that mattered.
The Hollywood machine meant nothing here. I was just an excluded stranger, relegated to the waiting room while my own wife went in for her appointment. It was the exact, undeniable isolation I had forced on Sutton for three years. I swallowed my Hollywood arrogance and took a step back.
“I understand,” I said. “Show me where to sign so I can get out of your way.”
The receptionist stepped back behind the counter. She pushed a clipboard across the surface, tapping a pen against the paper.
“Just print your name on the visitor line,” she instructed.
I reached for the pen. As my fingers closed around it, the raw, open blisters on my palms pinched together. A stinging pain shot up my wrist. I winced, adjusting my grip to avoid tearing the skin further.
I pressed the ballpoint against the paper, signing the registry. My handwriting was a jagged scrawl, ruined by the stiffness in my hands.
“Thank you for cooperating,” the receptionist said, pulling the clipboard back across the counter. “There is seating available over by the window until she finishes her appointment.”
I nodded, leaving the pen on the counter, and turned toward the row of rigid chairs by the window.
I walked away from the reception desk, my footsteps dragging over the linoleum.
The waiting area was tucked into the corner, separated from the entrance by a row of fake potted ferns.
I lowered myself into a chair. The hard edge dug into my lower spine, aggravating the dull ache I carried from the morning’s farm chores.
I let out a slow breath, resting my torn hands flat against my jeans to keep the open blisters from brushing against the plastic armrests.
The lobby was aggressively domestic. The walls were plastered with maternity posters boasting bright primary colors. An analog clock hung above the water cooler, the red second hand moving with a slow, rhythmic tick.
A man sitting three chairs down shifted in his seat.
He was holding a stack of glossy pamphlets, wearing a standard button-down shirt and a relaxed expression.
He leaned forward, looking me up and down—taking in the mud caked on the sides of my boots, the wrinkled cotton of my T-shirt, and the stubble on my jaw.
“You okay, man?” he asked, pointing a corner of his pamphlet toward my hands. “You look like you just went twelve rounds with a concrete wall.”
I kept my hands flat on my thighs.
“Just a long week at work,” I replied.
The man nodded, tossing the pamphlets onto the empty seat beside him. He squinted, leaning in to get a better look at me under the overhead lights. The casual friendliness dropped from his expression. He leaned an inch closer, tilting his head.
“Excuse me, but did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like that actor?” he asked. “Hayes Gallagher, from the Meridian movies.”
I didn’t flinch. A week ago, I would have flashed a charismatic smile, offered a smooth deflection, and maybe even signed one of his pamphlets just to keep my public image intact.
Now, I felt nothing but a profound disgust for the name.
Being Hayes Gallagher the actor was the exact reason I was banished to this seat.
I turned my head and met his gaze dead on.
“I get that a lot, but you’re mistaken,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m just a local guy waiting for his wife to finish her appointment.”
The man stared at me for a long moment, searching for a crack in the lie. I offered nothing, keeping my expression still. The tension broke. He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, and leaned back in his chair.
“Crazy resemblance, though,” he said, shaking his head. “My wife dragged me to opening night for the second movie. But anyway, is this your first kid?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is our first.”
“That’s great,” he said, a genuine, infectious grin breaking across his face. “This is our second. But let me tell you, it never gets old. Hearing that heartbeat on the ultrasound for the first time is going to blow your mind.”
The innocent, cheerful excitement in his voice only underscored my failure. The casual camaraderie he offered was meant for a normal father—a man who showed up, a man who belonged in the examination room holding his partner’s hand. I was a fraud sitting in the lobby.
My child was growing, passing milestones every single day, and the only voices it could hear in that room right now belonged to Sutton and Ruby. I had engineered my own exclusion. I gripped my knee, the rough denim scraping against my torn palms as I forced myself to face exactly what I had lost.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice dropping to a harsh rasp. “I would give anything in the world to be able to hear it today.”
The man nodded in quiet solidarity, assuming I was just nervous, and picked his pamphlets back up. I turned my head away from him. I sat alone in the corner, keeping my eyes locked on the closed door.