Whoever said pregnancy was a gift was a goddamn liar. Abby’s body was being held hostage by this alien invader, and she despised each and every change. She kept imagining Mom’s horror, or Wes’s for that matter, if they knew her true feelings about this pregnancy.
The worst part: The entire world wanted her to be over the moon about this new life she had created. No matter where she went—work, the grocery store, the dry cleaner’s—someone wanted to touch her belly and ooh and aah over each freaking burp, fart, and weight change. Abby didn’t get it. Almost anyone with a uterus could pop out a kid. Thirteen-year-olds in the Ozarks. Strung-out junkies. Prison inmates. She wanted to tell them all how stupid they were. Pregnancy wasn’t a blessing or a miracle. Getting knocked up was a result of reckless behavior and a major lapse in judgment. Even if you wanted a baby, bad things were bound to happen. Abby knew that firsthand.
She made her way into the kitchen, flipping on the lights as she went. She stopped, gripped by the incredible urge to have a drink. Five months and twelve days since her last drink, and it still happened all the time. In the middle of washing dishes or taking a patient’s temperature, walking to her car… Some days she’d think about leaving work and hauling ass to the first liquor store she passed. Other times, she’d drive by Costco and pull into the parking lot, imagining herself walking in and loading her cart with enough booze to numb herself for days. But this town was so small someone would be on the phone to Wes or her mother before Abby ever cleared the checkout. So she shook off the feeling. If she couldn’t drink, she might as well eat.
She opened the fridge and stared at the vast array of options. Mom insisted on doing her shopping now, as if Abby were some kind of invalid. It was like a goddamn Whole Foods exploded in her fridge. Baby carrots, hummus, cold cuts, fresh fruit. But she wasn’t in the mood for any of that. Instead she grabbed the chocolate crème pie she’d bought at the market after her shift the previous night. She’d promised herself she would take it to work and share with the girls, but Abby knew deep down that was never going to happen. This was the other reason she’d given Wes the boot. He’d find it unacceptable, eating chocolate pie first thing in the morning. She considered warming up a slice, topping it with ice cream, whipped cream, and fresh strawberries—see Wes, see Mom, I’m eating fruit—but she decided to hell with it and dug in, eating straight out of the plastic container.
From the other room, she heard her cell phone ringing. Wes again. It had to be…
No, this was why she’d ended things. The baby wasn’t even born, and Wes was suffocating her. A few weeks ago, things had come to a head.
“You should let me do that.”
She’d glanced down at the basket of laundry she was carrying.
“What? You’re joking, right? It’s not heavy.”
“Babe, I’m here. I don’t mind doing it.”
“Well, I mind. And I have a name, Wes. It isn’t ‘babe.’”
She’d seen that look, the petulant expression he got when he didn’t get his way. He’d kept on, spouting baby book statistics, talking about miscarriages and ruptures, none of which she cared about. She’d given in and handed over the laundry just to shut him up. Then she’d spent the rest of the day simmering. When he’d asked—for the hundredth time—if she was okay, Abby lost it.
“I can’t do this. I can’t.”
“Do what?” Wes asked.
“I’m not a house cat.”
“A house cat? Abby, what are you talking about?”
“I’m fine. If I’m not, I’ll tell you. But you have to give it a rest.”
Normally, when she tried to push his buttons, Wes fought back, calling her out. But that day, he’d shrugged.
“Tell me what you really want, Abs, and I’ll give it to you.”
“I want some goddamn space.”
He’d packed his bags that night and left his house. The house he’d bought for them. He’d gone to stay with a friend, a frat buddy who still lived in town. But now here he was, calling her at the ass crack of dawn. Looking after her was his addiction.
The phone finally stopped ringing, and she hoped he’d gotten the hint. Anxious and annoyed, she ate even faster. She’d made a mistake, moving in with him; she knew that.
“I love you,” he’d said over and over again.
But that was the problem. Abby didn’t want to be loved, and she wasn’t interested in loving him. Loving anyone, for that matter. Sex she could handle. They did that well. But a romance or—God forbid—a marriage wasn’t in the cards. Not now. Not ever.