10
Penny
Eleven weeks later…
I wake to the sound of Emma giggling and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Before I can even think about how warm and comfortable I am right now, blankets wrapped tightly around me, I untangle myself and sit my ass up; an overwhelming need for an early morning hit of caffeine taking over.
As I’m wiping the sleep from my eyes, my phone alarm goes off, signalling that it’s time for me to take my birth control, so I lean forward, tap my screen to stop the incessant beeping, and slide the top drawer of my wooden bedside table open. Still half asleep, I fumble with the packet, pull out the foil sleeve I’m currently on, and frown when I realise that I’ve only got two pills left. I intentionally skip my periods, so I don’t take the sugar ones, and somehow, I didn’t realise I was running this low yesterday, or the day before.
“Ugh,” I groan, popping one of the tiny pills out and tossing it into my mouth.
After washing it down with a sip of water from my stainless-steel drink bottle, I grab my phone, open the app I use to book all my doctors’ appointments and let out a sigh of relief when I see an open spot for this afternoon.
No period for me, thank God.
Do I need to physically see my GP to get a new script? Not really. I could book an over the phone consultation and save myself some time, but Dr. Hadges does likes to check my blood pressure every once in a while, to make sure that my body’s still handling the extra hormones like a champ, so I select the ‘in person consultation’ option and give myself a pat on the back for a productive start to my morning.
After dragging myself to my ensuite to pee, wash my face, moisturise and then brush my dark hair into a slicked back bun, because it’s in desperate need of a wash, I make my way out of my bedroom and down the hall.
I’m not surprised in the least to see Molly here when I enter the kitchen; still in her pyjamas, wavy brown hair chucked into a messy bun on the top of her head. Ever since the blowup between me and Beckett, she’s been here more often than not. I’ve told her time and time again that I’m fine, and that I’ve stopped the drinking, and one of those two things is actually true, but being the motherly little being she is, she can’t let it go.
I’m not usually one to turn to booze as a solution to my problems, so I understand her worry, but at the time, it was the only thing that stopped my mind replaying that night over and over again.
The only distraction that worked.
That was until I woke up one morning with Emma’s little arms wrapped around my neck and her nose pushed into my hair. Her tiny snores filled my ears, and instead of enjoying the snuggle, all I could focus on was the throbbing in my head and the bitter smell of tequila wafting from my pores.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as disappointed in myself as I was that day.
I gently moved her off me, brushed my teeth, scrubbed every inch of my skin in the shower to remove the smell, and then headed to the kitchen. After I popped some Panadol and emptied every alcoholic beverage I could find down the damn drain, I swore I’d pull my shit together, and I did. Sort of.
I’m okay now. Well, more okay than I was. I stopped being angry a while ago. Now I’m just fucking sad . The problem with that is that my ‘sadness’ tends to present itself in the same way my anger does, so who really knows what’s going on in the wild place that is my mind.
It did help to learn that after I left Inked on Agnes , and Beckett followed me to Brewery Lane , his tart of an ex-fiancé, returned to the scene of the crime and trashed his shop.
Bitter is another word I would also use to describe my current mental status.
But still, Molly comes, eats breakfast with us, far too early in the morning, and then goes home to get her and Emma ready for the day. How she’s not exhausted, I have no idea, but I’m also not going to complain about more time with my little girl or my best friend.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Molly greets me at the same time her daughter’s eyes lock on mine.
“Aunty P!” Emma exclaims from her spot on the counter beside her mother, arms raised and flapping about.
God, she looks like Molly, especially when her brown hair is tied up like that and her freckles are on full display.
I grin at her as I round the counter, grab her, and swing her up into my arms. “Good morning, missy,” I say, nuzzling my nose into her neck as she giggles. Her pink, fluffy guinea pig print PJs are so damn soft that I rub my face along her shoulder before pulling back, making her laugh all over again.
Evie smiles at me from her spot in front of the stove, ladle in hand. “We’re making pancakes,” she says as she pours some batter into the pan.
“Choc chwip wuns!” Emma announces as I put her back down.
My stomach twists, and I hate that the simple mention of pancakes can make me feel like this. That the smell of them reminds me of that morning…
So what? Why do I still care so much?
He’s a man. He cheated. That’s what they do.
The question sits me with, and no matter how hard I try to shake the feeling in my gut, it doesn’t shift, so instead of bringing everyone down with my now soured mood, I smile at them all and say, “Oh, none for me, thanks. I’m going to head into the café a little early and get started on a couple new recipes I want to try out.” Evie looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, so quickly I add, “That way, if I mess them up, I’ve got some time to make something else, you know?” I smile at her because it’s getting easier to do that now.
Well, it’s easier to fake a smile now, anyway.
Molly huffs out a laugh, drawing both mine and Evie’s attention to her as she continues cutting the strawberries. “When have you ever messed up a recipe?”
I shrug and snag a piece of fruit off the wooden cutting board. “Today could be the day.”
As I pop the strawberry in my mouth, my body instantly revolts at the taste. Quickly, I B-line for the sink, spit it out, rinse my mouth with water a couple of times and then poke at the discarded berry, convinced it must be rotten. It’s not, and I turn to Molly, confused, only to find her, Evie and Emma looking at me with wide eyes.
“Was yucky?” Emma asks, her little brows furrowed.
I nod. “Very yucky.”
The memory of the taste is enough to make me cringe.
Molly mimics her daughter’s expression and turns back to her cutting board. “They look fine,” she says, turning a few of the strawberries over with her knife. “I got them from the farmers’ market two days ago…”
I wave her off, grab a paper towel from the cupboard under the sink, and clean up my mess. “I’m sure I just got a bad one. Don’t stress,” I say as I toss my rubbish in the bin sitting to the side of the kitchen island, next to Emma.
“You feeling okay?” Evie asks, turning to me and placing her spatula down on the counter. “Not sick or anything?” She reties the string of her pale-yellow robe tighter around her waist and looks me up and down.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head at her concern. “I’m fine. That strawberry just didn’t like me.”
I can’t help but laugh as I watch Emma scowl down at the cutting board beside her as if each of berries insulted her somehow.
“Anyway, I’m going to get dressed and head out,” I say as I walk over to Em and smack a kiss on her chubby cheek, hoping everyone will just drop the interrogation and move on with their damn breakfast.
She giggles and pushes me away as I continue to pepper her face with kisses, and I watch from the corner of my eye as Molly and Evie look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and go back to what they were doing. As they begin chattering away about how much it’ll cost to ship in some fancy variegated plant Molly has her sights set on for the café, I head back into my bedroom and get myself dressed, far earlier than I’d planned to, and sulk over the fact that I’m going to have to invent a recipe to try out so that the girls don’t catch on to the fact that pancakes of all things triggered me.
“What is taking so long?” I whisper to myself as I pick at my fingernail and stare at the still closed door of Dr. Hadges’ consultation room.
The smell of disinfectant is too strong in here, as if someone came in just before I arrived and doused the entire room in bleach. Given the incredibly shiny surface of his glossy black desk, I may not be far off the mark. Not a fingerprint or speck of dust in sight.
Just as I’m about to get up and go in search of the man himself, the door swings open and in he walks. He’s stupidly good looking; an absolute silver fox, and the suit he’s wearing fits him like a glove. The expression on his cleanly shaven face, however, has my stomach churning a little.
“Everything alright?” I ask, smiling despite the weird vibe he brought back in with him. “You’re not about to tell me I’ve got the clap or something, right?”
“No, Ms. McIntyre,” he says, closing the door behind him before crossing the room, yellow manila folder in hand. “You do not have chlamydia .”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, more to myself than him as he rounds his desk and takes a seat on his fancy looking black leather swivel chair.
The only person I would have gotten that from is Beckett, so at least I don’t have to add another reason to hate him to the list.
He grunts in response before clearing his throat. “I am, however, unable to provide you with any form of birth control at this time, as you are pregnant.”
“No, I’m not.” The words are out of my mouth before I can even fully process what he just said.
“Yes, you are,” Dr. Hadges responds calmly. “The urine sample you provided has confirmed that.”
“Nope.”
“Ms. McIntyre-”
“I can’t be.”
“Are you not sexually active?” he asks, frowning, and opening the folder he placed on his desk a moment ago.
“No, I am. I mean, I was, but I’m… I’m on the pill. Isn’t that the pills job? To stop me from getting pregnant? That’s the whole damn point, is it not?” My words increase in volume until I’m practically yelling at him.
I’m dreaming, or hallucinating, or something, because there is no way in hell that this man just told me that I’m pregnant. He checked my blood pressure, listened to my heart, asked me a bunch of standard questions, and then he asked me to pee in a cup, ‘ just to make sure ’.
I did as he asked.
I did my part!
How does that lead to pregnancy? HOW?
“I’m on the pill,” I repeat, my voice shaking. “I take the pill every day at the same time, like the packet says. Every. Damn. Day.”
Now, I’m angry. I’m angry at myself, at the pill, at the stupidly handsome doctor sitting across from me, and at Beckett.
Dr. Hadges nods in understanding. “Unfortunately, as I explained, when we placed you on birth control, Ms. McIntyre, it is not one-hundred percent effective. Regardless of the reason it did not work for you this time around, you are indeed pregnant. And, because you skip your menstrual cycles frequently, we cannot calculate how far along you are based on the start of your last period, so-”
“But I… I haven’t noticed any weight gain, or sickness, or anything…”
I mean, I’ve been a little tired, maybe a tad bloated, but…The strawberry from this morning flashes in my mind.
Oh, shit.
He nods as I speak. “That’s not unusual. Some women don’t experience any symptoms until further into their pregnancy-”
“But I haven’t had sex in months . You’re telling me I’ve been pregnant this entire time and just didn’t know it?” My chest gets tighter and tighter with every word. “Oh, God,” I huff out, clutching my neck as he nods in response. “I was drinking. Lots. Too much. And I’ve been taking my pill the entire time. Is that bad? That’s bad, right? I… I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” Every breath feels laboured as the room begins to spin and I struggle to pull air into my lungs.
Quickly, Dr. Hadges rounds his desk and leans down to place a professional, yet reassuring hand on my upper back. “In and out, Ms. McIntyre,” he instructs. “Just breathe. Plenty of women continue taking their contraception before discovering that they are pregnant. There is very little evidence that it has any effect on the baby, especially considering the hormones you take when doing so, mimic the ones your body naturally produces, and as for the alcohol consumption, well, there isn’t anything we can do about that now. We’ll do some blood work and an ultrasound, and that’ll tell us more…”
His voice is soothing enough that I manage to focus on it, and not my inability to breathe, and soon enough, I manage to take in a long, deep breath. After another moment, he removes himself from my side and sits back in his chair on the other side of his desk. “Penny,” he begins, dropping the formalities. “If this pregnancy is not something you wish to continue, you have options. Please do not feel as though you don’t. There are support programs. We can discuss termination, adoption…”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t.”
And by that, I mean, I can’t think about this. I can’t consider adoption, or abortion, or having a child. I can’t be pregnant. Because being pregnant means…
Oh, God. I’m going to have to tell Beckett.
I’m going to have to talk to Beckett.
“Okay, well let’s start by-”
“I have to go!” I say, far too loudly, causing Dr. Hadges to jump. “I need to leave.” Standing abruptly, I look around the room frantically trying to find an escape route.
“I really think we should discuss-”
“Later. After. Maybe,” I say, grabbing my handbag from the floor and slinging it over my shoulder.
I don’t look back as Dr. Hadges tries to get my attention again by calling my name, I simply let myself out of his office, power walk through the clinic, past several waiting patients and a receptionist with a concerned look on her face, and I don’t stop until I’m in my car.
Hopefully, they have my card on file, ‘cos I sure as hell didn’t pay for that appointment.
“Oh, God,” I huff out as I place my hands on the steering wheel and my mind starts spinning.
Pregnant.
Beckett.
Baby .
Shit.
I’m sweating. It’s too hot. Fuck, it’s too hot in here. Clumsily, I fumble with my keys, shove them in the ignition and start the car. Instantly, cool air starts flowing through the air conditioning vents.
With a deep breath, I reach up and flip my sun visor down and look at my reflection in the mirror.
“You’ve done it now, Penny,” I whisper to myself, my bottom lip trembling.
My car chirps at me twice, as my phone connects to the Bluetooth, and without thinking, I tap the touch screen pad and click on Evie’s contact information.
I do it more out of habit than anything else. I’m one of those people who likes talking while I drive, rather than listening to music, but today… can I call her? Can I tell her this before I tell him ? My finger lingers over the ‘call’ button. How do I even explain this to her? She’ll have questions that I don’t have answers to. She’ll ask me how I feel, and I don’t even know. She’ll be excited…
I can’t call Molly either for the same reasons.
My eyes flick back to my reflection. “You have to tell him,” I whisper.
With a scowl and a sigh, I grab my phone from my purse and open our message thread.
FUCKFACE: I miss you.
FUCKFACE: Please, just talk to me. Please.
FUCKFACE: Morning, Love.
FUCKFACE: Can we talk today?
The last one’s dated a few days ago, but I’ve received at least three missed calls a day since then, and I’ve seen his stupid guilt ridden face every single day at work. Because despite my best efforts to ignore him, he still comes in and sits right in the middle of my café and stares at me while he eats his lunch.
The prick .
Quickly, I type out a message and read it back to myself.
ME: I’m pregnant. Just so you know.
I add the peace sign emoji, then delete it, then add it back, and delete it, then read the message again.
“Ugh,” I groan, locking my phone and tossing it onto the passenger seat.
This is an in-person kind of conversation, isn’t it? I can’t just text him…
Can I?
I could…
No. I have to tell him face-to-face.
Fuck sakes.
With absolutely zero confidence in my decision, I shake my head, flip my sun visor back up, and put the car in reverse.
If I don’t do this now, while I have the nerve, I won’t. I know myself, and I am the queen of avoidance, and this doesn’t feel like something I can avoid for very long.
When I finally pull into Becketts driveway after ten minutes of absolute silence, I wish I’d taken a different route. I wish I’d gotten stuck in road works, or stopped for coffee, or that I’d been pulled over for going 5ks under the speed limit the entire way. Because sitting here, watching Paige put her hand on Beckett’s bare chest as they huddle in the doorway of his house? Yeah, that has me seeing red.
Be the bigger person, Penny.
I can hear Evie’s voice, clear as day in my mind, as the words repeat in my head, and I try to calm myself down.
Ten seconds later, I’m practically kicking my car door open, because no amount of ‘exhaling my negative energy’ is going to work.
Fuck being the bigger person.
I’m going to hurt that bitch.