“According to tons of lab work and pregnancy tests, yes. But my body still hasn’t gotten the complete memo, aside from the throwing-up part.”
Kyle heads to my desk and flips the chair around, and Pandora jumps on the bed with shoes and everything, her leather jacket suddenly all I can smell.
“Pan-Pan, I don’t really feel like your vibe is babyish enough for Brookey, so you sit over there.” Melanie pats her side so she gets me all by herself, but Pandora reaches over me and shoves her playfully.
“Shush up, let me hug her.”
Pandora looks at me, with her dark eyes and dark lipstick. People don’t know that goths are extremely sensitive people—at least, Pandora is. You turn goth for a reason. I think she’s just naturally dramatic and angsty, and it was all after some ass**le broke her heart. It’s a miracle, Mel says, that Pandora didn’t turn lesbian.
“You okay?” Pan asks, and before I can nod or speak, she pulls me into her leather jacket, and I feel Melanie snuggle my back too. Melanie can’t ever resist a hug. She even says hmmm.
“It’s gonna be all right, Brookey,” Mel says. Then she adds in my ear, “I promised your man I’d take care of you. He asked me to make sure you were not alone, were well fed, and taken care of. Riley told me he and Pete will need a daily report from me so they can keep Remington appeased, and he also told me you’ve been puking and that your baby daddy wants you to f**king eat!”
I groan in protest and ease away from their hug. “I’m all right. When I get hungry, I’ll eat something. If my body wants food, it will tell me. Guess what hunger was designed for?”
“We don’t care if you want to eat or not. We’re your man’s minions on a mission, and we already got you something, in memory of old times,” Kyle informs me as he gets up from the chair and returns with a Jack in the Box bag. That instant, I vividly remember how these three dopes teased Pete and Riley before in the drive-through, ages ago, the night Remington hired me. And I think of that fateful evening, and how he’d already changed my life without me even realizing. All my feelings crowd around my chest, and as Kyle brings over the bag, a surge of nausea overtakes me.
“Get that out of here!” I plead as I pinch my nose, which only alters my voice to the ridiculous. “I’m not doing so well with certain smells. Plus I need veggies for this baby. I need folic acid and calcium—stuff that shit doesn’t have, I guarantee. What kind of friends are you?”
He laughs triumphantly. “We knew you’d say that or you wouldn’t be you, so the Jack’s for us. We got you something else.” He leaves the room, then returns and reveals a brown bag from Whole Foods. “Likey? You wanna talk about good friends now?”
I toss him a pillow. “Bring that over!” I peer into the bag and spot a turkey wrap, the kind I like, and suddenly my friends’ gestures and support enfold me like the hug they just gave me, snug and tight.
“You guys are so good to me,” I say, setting the bag on my nightstand.
Melanie tugs my ponytail. “Have you noticed you’re mush now?” She squeezes my arm and when my little bicep responds to her, she amends, “Uh, on the inside.”
I burst out laughing, then close my eyes and see blue eyes, spiky hair. I want to squish him so hard, but he’s so far away. I wrap my hands around his baby instead. Then I look at my phone. Remy isn’t as dependent on phones and Internet as other people are. Neither am I, but now I’m clinging to my phone as my thread to him. He’s not even the type to text, but I don’t freaking care. Call me tonight if you want to?
It takes over an hour for him to answer, but I grin like a dope when he answers: Just landed. I’ll call.
We watch a movie, then Melanie hops up from the bed. “Hey, Chicken! Did I tell you? Next guy I sleep with is in for a treat. I just took pole-dancing classes!” She grabs my floor lamp and proceeds to show us just what she learned, moving sinuously with her body, one jean-clad leg wrapped around the stem. “Kyle, that get your motor running?”
“Dude, it would be like incest if it did,” Kyle says, from where he straddles my desk chair.
“Why? You’re not my brother!” she protests. “Come on. Does it get your motor revving?” She moves her tush for him to see.
Kyle sits there, looking exactly like Justin Timberlake, and he says, hesitantly, “It’s . . . sputtering.”
“Pan, come here. Peter Pan, move with me so Kyle can get his rusty motor up and going. I’m going to teach you what I learned for free.” Pandora goes to the iPod dock and sets her phone on the base. A rock song immediately blasts inside my bedroom.
“All right, let’s get Kyle hard over there!” Discarding her leather jacket as if she’s stripping for the poor man, she heads over to Mel. And then she and Melanie start bumping asses and having a blast, and I find myself listening to the song, trying to find the lyrics through all the noise, wondering if it’s even something I’d ever play to him.
It’s useless, so I grab Remy’s iPod and put in my earbuds and listen to Avril Lavigne’s “When You’re Gone.” It’s so nice to listen to a song that you get. Or that gets you. That makes you realize what you’re feeling is human, and normal, even if it may be a feeling you wished you didn’t have.
I text him the YouTube link. He doesn’t text back, and I assume he’s in the gym, punching his bags unrecognizable.
How is he going to cope these two months apart?
I can’t shake off the thought that, even though I’m the more emotional one, this will test him more than it will test me.
I’m still wondering about it when the cramps begin. I shift on the bed as my friends keep talking and all my awareness hones in on the god-awful cramps that make my fight or flight surge to life. If feels like someone is hurting my baby. My own body is hurting my baby. I search the iPod for songs that calm me, and the only song that succeeds is “Iris.”
But the pain intensifies. I quietly remove my earbuds and slowly get up from the bed. My friends fall completely quiet when they see me walk, folded over, to the bathroom. I shut the door and when I check, I realize the blood is back. And heavy.
For a moment I just breathe roughly through my nose and lean my head against the tile, trying to calm down. I touch my stomach lovingly and try to talk to my baby in my head, telling him that nobody is going to hurt him. That he is very wanted and already very loved.
I imagine looking into the blue eyes I love while having to tell Remy that I lost his baby. A well of emotion seizes me again, and tears I thought I no longer had threaten to surface once more.
“Mel,” I shout through the door. “Mel, I don’t know if this baby is going to make it.”
She opens the door with a forlorn expression. “Brooke, he’s calling. It’s been ringing several times. Do I answer?”
“No! No!”
“You look bad, but he told me to tell him the instant you needed him. Brookey, I think I should let him know—”
“No! Melanie, NO. Look, he can’t do anything. He needs to fight! There’s something he needs to do. Our baby and I will support him, not hinder him. Do you hear me?”
“Then at least let me take you to the hospital—you look like you’re being torn in two!” she says.
“Yes—no! I shouldn’t move around. I need to . . . rest. I am not . . . losing . . . this baby. . . .” I drag in a breath and shake my head; then I sniffle. “Please bring me my phone?”