Of course I’ve thought about it. It sounds so tragic and romantic, but this isn't a book. We exist in the real world, where choices have consequences. I might win Aidan, but what will I be taking from others?
“I won’t do that to Allison.”
“But you don't know her. I don't mean to sound unkind, but…”
“Put yourself in Allison's shoes,” Savannah says. “You wind up pregnant by a guy you’re having casual sex with. If you had feelings for him,” Savannah glances at me, then back to Mari, “Wouldn't you want the chance to see where things could go?”
“I can't even imagine being pregnant,” Charity says, shuddering. “No thank you.”
I'm growing tired of this conversation. We either need to move on to a new topic, or it's time for me to leave. I pick up my martini glass, drink the last of it, and move to set it down. I misjudge the table and end up placing the martini glass on the edge. It teeters for a moment, then falls to the ground and shatters.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Bartender,” Charity cups her hands around her mouth and pretends to yell at Drew, “Do not serve this lady any more alcohol.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” I say, looking down. For the most part, the mess is between my and Savannah's chairs, but there are a few large pieces in the walkway. Steadying myself with one hand on Savannah's chair, I bend at the waist and try to move the glass before it hurts somebody.
Only, it hurts me instead.
“Ow.” I sit up in my chair and cradle my right hand in my left. The pain sears my palm. As much as I don't want to look at the cut, I force myself to. Blood oozes from the wound, making it hard to determine how deep it is. All I know is that it really fucking hurts.
Snatching a napkin off the table, I press it to the wound.
Savannah is deep in conversation with Charity and Mari. Something about how choosing to not to have children does not make her less of a woman. Charity gasps when her eyes flicker across the table and spots the red soaking through the napkin.
“I’m all right,” I say automatically. Truthfully, I'm not sure I'm okay. I’ve cut myself before, but it didn't hurt this bad.
Savannah goes to the bar and returns with more napkins. When I pull away the used one, I catch a glimpse of the depth of the cut. It's pretty deep, and my stomach is starting to feel uneasy. Pressing a fresh napkin to my palm, I ask Savannah to put my purse across my body and help me into my jacket.
“Are you going home?” she asks.
“Urgent care,” I answer. “I think I might need stitches.”
“I’ll go with you,” she says, standing up from the table.
“We all will.”
A loud song has come on, and I'm not sure if it was Mari or Charity who said that, so I shake my head at both of them. “Don't let me ruin your night. I mean it.” When I see the looks of disbelief on their faces, I remind them that they did not get dolled up just to go sit in urgent care.
“And I did?” Savannah smiles as she says it, grabbing my jacket and holding it for me while I slip my left arm in. I ball up my right hand, even though it hurts like hell, so that the napkin stays in place, then push my hand through the arm of my jacket.
“Let me go tell Drew what's going on. I'll be back in two seconds.” Savannah walks away, weaving her way through the crowd to the bar.
Turning back to Charity and Mari, I apologize for ruining their night.
Mari shakes her head. “The only person whose night is ruined is yours. And you're the one who could probably use a fun night.”
“Don't worry about me. I'll be okay.”Try telling that to my heart who won't let me go more than ten minutes without thinking of Aidan.
“All set?” Savannah asks from behind me.
We say goodbye and make our way through the front door. Savannah holds out her phone and squints at it. “There's an urgent care this way. Come on,” she says authoritatively, looping one arm through the crook of my left elbow.
We arrive at urgent care, and Savannah signs me in. The receptionist holds out forms for me to fill out, which clearly I cannot do. Savannah plucks them from her hand and chooses a seat at the far end of the room. According to the monitor in the corner underneath the ceiling, there is approximately a one hour wait time. The chairs are plastic and uncomfortable. A small bookshelf houses toys, puzzles, and books. I bet every one of those items is crawling with nasty germs. On the middle of one wall is a flat screen TV playingWhen Harry Met Sally. I'm not certain, but I think the orgasm scene has passed. Of all that is currently happening in my life, that is something I'm grateful for. I can't imagine sitting in a room full of sick or injured strangers and watching Meg Ryan simulate an orgasm.
Savannah fills in my information as much as she can, asking me questions as she goes. For an hour I try to get comfortable (not possible), and I try not to think of Aidan (also not possible). Is he with her right now? What was the doctor’s appointment like? In my imagination, Aidan stands beside Allison as she lies on the exam table, her stomach exposed to the ultrasound technician. The rapid sound of the baby’s heartbeat fills the air, and then the tiny little dot of the human appears on the screen. This miracle does something to Aidan, and he looks at Allison with brand-new eyes.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to get ahold of my imagination. When it comes to writing, my imagination is a gift. In this moment, it's more of a curse.
