I watch her sway slightly and prop herself against the wall. I’ve seen enough pregnant women in restaurant kitchens—line cooks who worked until their water broke, servers who hid their condition behind aprons—to recognize the signs. She needs to sit down, drink water, and about a dozen other things she won’t let me do for her.
“You should eat something,” I say, knowing she’ll refuse. Sure enough, she starts to argue, so I interrupt, “There’s a diner two blocks down. Greasy spoon kind of place. Nothing fancy, but they’ll have toast and ginger ale.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her weighing her options. Pride versus practicality. The baby wins.
“Okay,” she says. “But this doesn’t change anything.”
“Believe me, I know.”
I need a shower. The blood from the parking lot creep is drying under my fingernails, and I can smell the motel stink mixing with my musk in a way that is highly unpleasant.
“I’m going to clean up,” I tell her. “Give me five minutes.”
Eliana nods, still pressed against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. I disappear into the bathroom. The shower water takes forever to heat up. When it finally does, I stand under the spray and let it scald me. I scrub the blood from my hands. The soap is an industrial lye that strips everything—oil, dirt, probably a few layers of skin. Good. I want to be stripped down to nothing.
My kid. Jesus Christ, mykid.
I press my forehead against the moldy tile and let that reality sink in. Eliana is carrying my child, and she’s made it abundantly clear that’s all they’ll ever be—mine in biology only.
I’m a fucking sperm donor, not a father.
The water starts to cool off, like it’s telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself.You made your choices, motherfucker. Live with them. I shut it off and towel myself dry with a towel that feels like sandpaper.
I wrap the towel around my waist and step back into the room to grab a clean shirt from my duffel bag. Eliana has moved from the wall to perch on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She’s re-tied her hair into a neat ponytail and straightened her clothes, trying to look put together. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she was fine.
But Idoknow better. I know the set of her shoulders means she’s barely making it right now. I’ve memorized every tell she has,and right now, they’re all screaming that she’s about two seconds from either throwing up or passing out.
“Almost ready,” I say, pulling the shirt over my head.
She doesn’t respond, but I catch the slight turn of her head toward my voice. For a second—just one stupid, desperate second—I let myself imagine a different world. One where I could cross this shitty room and press my hand to her stomach and she wouldn’t flinch away.
But that world doesn’t exist. In this one, I’m the monster in the alley, and she’s the woman smart enough to run.
I finish getting dressed and open the motel room door. “Alright. Let’s go.”
16
ELIANA
court-bouillon /?ko?or bo?o'yôn/: noun
1: an aromatic poaching liquid, gentle enough to cook delicate fish without destroying it.
2: the temporary warmth of being cared for by someone you’re not allowed to forgive.
The walk to the diner takes forever and a half. Two blocks shouldn’t feel like a marathon, but between the morning sickness and Bastian’s hovering, every step is an Olympic event. I spend most of the trek focused on not decorating the asphalt with whatever’s left in my stomach.
Bastian’s hand keeps almost-touching my elbow. I can feel it there, suspended in the air like a mosquito I want to swat. The urge to snap at him that I’m blind, not made of glass, rises in my throat, but I swallow it down along with the bile. If I open my mouth right now, what comes out won’t be words.
Morning sickness is such bullshit. Who named it that? Some bright-eyed optimist, that’s for damn sure. A man, probably,an XY-chromosomed asshole who never experienced the joy of feeling like you’re on a boat in a hurricane while simultaneously being pummeled in the stomach by a legion of tiny fists. Because it’s not just mornings—it’s all fucking day, an endless wave ofMaybe I’ll puke, maybe I won’t; let’s play Russian roulette with my gag reflex. Doesn’t that sound like fun?
And, to heap problems on top of problems, it’s gotten leagues worse since Bastian showed up. Like my body decided to betray me on a cellular level, making me biologically dependent on the one person I most need to stay away from.
Inside the diner, the sensory assault makes me want to turn around and leave. It’s a delightful combo of fryer grease thick enough to choke on, burnt coffee emanating from a pot that hasn’t seen soap since before I was born, and about fifty overlapping conversations between truckers complaining about the Bears and nighttime ER nurses complaining about each other. Bastian’s hand floats just above the small of my back.
“Booth in the back corner,” he murmurs in my ear, close enough for his breath to ghost across my skin. “Eleven o’clock.”
I shiver, but I don’t shrug him off because I need the anchor point or else I might face-plant into someone’s hash browns. And judging by the angry cadence of the nearest nurse, she would be less than pleased if I did so.
