“She’s been pregnant before, and you know, it’ll be easier without...”
I stopped. I didn’t want to spell out that he was drunk and a mess and not helpful right now.
Even if it was the truth.
His face fell. “Okay. If that’s really what you want...?”
My mother put her hand on my shoulder and gently rubbed it. The doctor said, “You can wait out in the waiting room. And once we know what’s going on, we can open the room up to more visitors.”
“I think he might actually need to be looked at too,” I interjected. “He had a pretty big fall at the party we were just at, and I’m worried he might have a concussion.”
“Well, then,” the doctor said, just as Kallum opened his mouth to protest. “I think you should wait with the triage nurse instead, and have her take a look at you. And no arguing with me—you don’t want to mess with the possibility of a concussion. Seriously.”
Kallum gave me an inscrutable look and walked to the door, and I knew this was the moment I should say something, call out to him. But there was a burn in my chest, blazing there alongside the fear, and it kept me from saying anything to make him feel better.
I’d wanted to count on Kallum so much; I’d talked myself into trusting that he wouldn’t be careless or selfish when it came to me and the baby... and this is where I was right now. Scared and bleeding on a chux pad while he was stumbling around and nearly yanking IVs out of my arm.
Maybe Gretchen had been right. Maybe taking life seriously was never going to be his personality. And if that was the case, then who was I to ask him to be any different?
“I’ll call,” was what I managed to say. He didn’t turn back.
By the time the door closed, I was starting to sniffle again, with my mom pulling me into a tight, Chanel-scented hug.
“Now,” began my father, patting my foot again, “about getting my daughter and my grandchild to someplace with a higher-level ER...”
Voicemail left by Winnie Baker on Kallum Lieberman’s phone the next day, 9:13a.m.
Um, hey. It’s me. I’m sorry it took a minute to call—everything happened so fast. The initial exam and sonogram returned good news: I’m not in any kind of preterm labor, and the baby’s heartbeat is still really strong. Dad ended up getting his way and having me transferred to a much bigger hospital in Boston, where they’ll be doing a more intense ultrasound and running several tests, but right now, it looks like the reason I’m bleeding is that the placenta is resting over the cervix a little. As the baby grows, the placenta should move away from the cervix, so the only real treatment for it is time. And maybe some bed rest too.
I heard from Steph that you didn’t have a concussion or anything worse than a chipped tooth. I’m so glad. I hope you’re getting some much-needed sleep.
Look, Kallum, I know we didn’t have a chance to say goodbye, but part of me wonders if that’s a good thing. If maybe we need some space from each other, to think about what we really want our lives to look like. I don’t want you to feel dragged into the biggest responsibility a person can have, and the more I think about it, the more I don’t think it’s fair that you have to be. You’re an incredible friend and lover and I know you’ll be really playful and kind with our child. But last night really made me realize that I’m not ready to count on someone who also isn’t ready to be counted on. I’ve done it before, and it really sucked.
And I think... I think we might be mismatched, you know? Who we are, the stages of our lives. And that’s no one’s fault, that’s just the way things played out. But maybe it’s good that we learn this now, before the baby gets here, rather than after, when everything is messy and hard anyway. But I do wish—
It doesn’t matter. And I’ll call again when I know more about the baby.
Goodbye, Kallum. And I’m sorry.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kallum
I slept off my hangover at the hospital and thanks to the IV drip they had me on, my body felt fine. (Besides the chipped front tooth, which felt like the universal sign forfuckup.)
When I got back to the inn, I had a text from Isaac.
Isaac:I’m out looking at real estate today. Nolan caught me up on what I missed last night. I hope Winnie’s okay. My jet is at the airport and I’ve called ahead to let them know you can take it wherever you need to go. Winnie. Home. Whatever.
At that point, I’d already listened to Winnie’s voicemail, which sounded too much like she was ending things between us. But I just had to apologize. I was drunk and stupid, and asolid apology would fix it. Especially if I could see her face-to-face.
So much of that night was fuzzy, but I just remember her parents and their crisp clothes and wrinkle-free Botox faces. Hell, even I’d wanted to let them be in charge at that moment. I’d lost plenty of girls to their one true love, but never had I lost a girl to her parents.
When I got to the private airfield, I FaceTimed Winnie only to get a text response from her, saying that she was in the middle of being discharged and was cleared for travel. She was flying back to LA and we could talk more when she got home.
So I took Isaac’s fancy jet, and couldn’t even enjoy the fancy steak and ceviche they served me for lunch because my brain was racked trying to understand how things went from utterly perfect to a pizza oven engulfed in flames faster than my pole-dancing career could even fully begin.
Home is where the pizza is. And for me, home was the apartment above the Slice, Slice, Baby flagship location in downtown Kansas City. When I first started it up, I dumped everything I had into this place. I bought the location outright. It was a good spot too. A corner space with decent square footage, so I bought a king-size bed, a couch, and a TV big enough to fit in a small movie theater. I’ve updated it since then and even hired one of Tamara’s friends to decorate. I have art, matching sheets, and a bidet. Now I just need a nursery.
