Not that I need him to speak. Deep in my soul, I already had this silent conversation with him in my head. I know he’s furious. Possibly disgusted. He’s going to tell me it was a mistake and it will never happen again. He’s going to tell me I need to stay away from his boyfriend. That what happened was a lapse in all our judgment and I should be ashamed for letting it get that far.
What the voices in my head hadn’t counted on was the soft mumble of, “Are you okay?”
I’m not prepared.
I don’t have a script for this in my head.
“What?” I say stupidly.
His clothes make a faint rustling sound with his subtle shifting.
“Are you okay?”
So much has happened in the last several hours that I don’t know what he’s referring to. Regardless, no, I’m not okay. I wish Christmas would end already so I can go back to my shitty little apartment and pretend this year never happened.
“I’m fine,” I lie, hoping that would be the end of it.
But he doesn’t leave like most people would have. He doesn’t accept my response at face value, nor does he full-on accuse me of lying. He simply remains in my way. A hulk of a man blurring at the edges to melt into the darkness around us.
“Did I hurt you?”
It’s said quickly with sharp edges that slice through the silence.
I pick at the sliver of torn skin at my thumb.
“I’m fine,” I mumble a second time, hoping it will be enough to make him go away.
“That isn’t what I asked,” he retorts instead.
Against my better judgment, I make a skirting beeline straight for him. My strides are kept brisk and purposeful. My goal is heading straight past him and…
Long fingers capture my wrist. They curl around the delicate bones and drag me to a stop mere inches from freedom.
“You can’t always keep running,” he growls through gritted teeth.
It’s on my tongue to tell him, watch me. But I just want out of that stuffy cubicle. I want space and distance from everyone. I want to be literally anywhere but here with the one person who wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire.
Yet, for some reason, he’s taken it upon himself to do whatever this is.
“Let go,” I bite out.
His hold only tightens.
“Are you on birth control?” he grinds out with that same brittle sharpness.
Even my brain struggles with a response to that question. It clicks off its rotation as it simultaneously bristles with indignation and backpaddles with panic.
I’m not.
I haven’t been in over fifteen months. Not since my last boyfriend. I didn’t have a reason to keep taking them. It was almost a relief not having to remember every morning. How was I supposed to know I was going to get dumped in?
Fuck.
There was so much between the two. What if I do get pregnant? Probably something I should have considered before begging them to fill me.
God, a baby…
I can’t have a baby. Not alone. I can barely take care of myself, and I doubt Nicolas is going to suddenly accept that I’m not a fuck up and want a baby with me.
