Finally back to my usual self—well, minus the child inside of me—I pull open the door of the Saint Street bathroom. I quickly draw back when I find Owen standing in the narrow hallway, his usually goof demeanor replaced with a flat expression.
“You scared me, puppy.” I laugh, attempting to act casual by using his nickname.
He smiles, and it’s small and says more than I care to admit. My defenses automatically go up.
“I didn’t mean to loiter in the hallway. I just heard you getting sick and wanted to make sure you were okay.” His stare is piercing, my stomach hollowing out.
“I’m okay. I guess I just ate something bad,” I lie.
He nods. “I really don’t mean to pry, Lottie. Your life is none of my business, but if you need anything at all, I’m here.”
I keep my mouth shut, my sudden anger toward him taking me aback. Does he know? How could he possibly?
“I, uh—” I pause, unsure how to continue.
He holds up his hand. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot at all. My mum used to get sick from the smell of bacon too when she had my brother. I was ten, so I remember is all.”
I keep my mouth shut, unsure how to proceed. Unsure how to comprehend the fact that someone I’ve known less than two months is the first person to know about my pregnancy.
“I’m sorry, this is probably highly inappropriate, but I just wanted you to know I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Clearly you’re keeping this to yourself for now, which of course is your right, and I’m probably overstepping every boundary ever created, but I’ve come to value you as a friend and I just wanted to let you know I’m here. That’s all. I’m rambling. But yeah, sorry. And if I’m totally off base, then consider me highly mortified and accept my apologies.” He looks around, seemingly uncomfortable with himself, unsure how to proceed. I can’t help but laugh. It just jumps out of my mouth, my hand instantly covering it. None of this is funny. But all things considered, it is partly comical that Owen, of all people, is the first to know. Jesus, maybe I’m also losing my mind.
His expression is uncertain, my anger toward him suddenly gone.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” I reply. “I’m not sure what to say if I’m being honest. I don’t know too many men who are quite so perceptive.” I keep out the part where I assumed Owen would be the last of anyone in the group to guess what’s going on. He’s got that “beautiful blond idiot” look to him, which now that I say it, makes me feel like the idiot, and an asshole.
He scratches his neck but continues to look at me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Ah, God, sorry. I feel like I’ve overstepped and now I’m saying sorry again.”
“You’re fine,” I say, surprised I actually mean it. I’m not one to let strangers into my business, but there’s a comfort that comes from Owen. “I would usually say now is a good time for a drink, but I guess we both know I’m in no position to be doing that.”
He laughs, seeming to loosen up a little bit.
“We should probably get back to everyone,” I say. “But yeah, um, it would be great if you could keep this to yourself,” I throw in as I walk by him.
“I won’t say a word.”
I nod, my body shaking slightly. I dig my fingers into my bag and quickly exit the hallway, leaving Owen alone.
Two days later I’m sitting alone in my flat, drinking water that I wish would magically turn into wine. After having to call in sick to work, I’m already dreading how the next seven months are going to play out. If my calculations are correct, and they have to be, I got pregnant in July and since it’s September, that means I’m two months along.
My phone pings, causing my heart to stop.
It could be Beck.
Beck. The lying asshole I gave over two years of my life to, even moved to Edinburgh for, before finding out he had been cheating on me for over a year.
Beck, who was the last person I slept with, the father of this little thing cooking inside of me.
Also, the same man who has been avoiding my calls for the past two days. It could be that he’s still pissed that I sold his TV to pay for my “emotional damages” as I claimed at the time. Or the countless other items I tossed out our flat’s windows.
One might have lingering guilt, even offer to pay for it in the long run, but not me. As far as I’m concerned, that fucker can rot in hell. Well, that was my thought process before all of this.
Now I still want him to rot in hell, but I also need him to step up for our child.
Ugh,even saying the words “our child” hurts my soul. I pray to the universe that he’s going to be a better father than he was a partner; otherwise, we’re both screwed.
Letting out a breath, I place my water on the table and check my message.
I try to blink away the frustration I feel when I see Stana’s name instead of my ex’s. He may be a cheating asshole, but not once over the past few days did I think he’d ignore my calls, ignore the fact we’re having a child together.
It was never something I wanted to tell him over the phone, but after countless unanswered messages and straight-to-voicemail calls, I’d had enough. I told the daft prick I was
