I flinch. My brain feels sluggish. It’s hard to really process this. Ellen is pregnant—with my child.

“I’ll fix this.”

“Fix this? Really?”

I shake my head. “I mean, I’ll figure this out.”

“Ha! Wow … okay then. Here’s the issue with that mentality, I’m not broken nor am I a puzzle you need to figure out. I’m pregnant. Period.”

I sit up, resting my elbows on the desk. “You’ll move back here.”

“I’m not leaving my dad. You move here.”

“I can’t. I have my practice and there’s no way Harrison will move. Move your dad here.”

“So, because we were irresponsible, I have to pack up my dad in his impaired condition and move him away from his house, his parents, his doctors and therapists, his life? Sure, that sounds fair … oh … no … not again …” her voice mumbles.

“Ellen?”

I hear gagging and coughing and then a toilet flush.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Water runs, probably from the sink. “I need to go lie down.”

“Ellen …”

“Merry Christmas, Flint.” She ends the call.

*

“Thought you were dead.” Cage, my “only” friend, answers his phone.

“Might as well be.”

“Drinking again?”

“No. But it’s tempting. Merry Christmas.”

Cage chuckles. “Thanks. You too.”

“Can we do all the catching up, how’s-the-family stuff later? I’m in a predicament.”

“This is new, you coming to me. It must be really bad.”

“A sperm got away from me.”

He laughs. “Oh shit. A baby?”

“Yes, I knocked a woman up, but I’m not banging on my chest about it.”

He laughs.

“It’s not funny, man.”

“No. I’m sure it’s not to you. I was just going to say welcome to my world.”

“I’d take your world over mine any day of the week and twice on Sunday.”

“Harrison is a great kid.”

I nod. “He is. You should hear him play the guitar. If he weren’t so socially awkward, he’d sell out stadiums.”

“Yeah, well … playing to big crowds is overrated.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“So the baby mama, was this a one-night stand.”

“No.”

“So what’s the problem? Put a ring on her finger and sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“We’re not a geographic match. Circumstances have her on the East Coast where she can’t leave, and I have my whole life here. Harrison made me promise we wouldn’t move.”

“You’re coddling him. My dad never coddled me. I advise against it.”

“I’m not coddling him. He just doesn’t adapt like other kids.”

“Does he like this woman?”

“Ellen. Her name is Ellen.”

“Aw … you do like her. You give a shit that she has a name.”

“Shut up … fucker. And yes, he likes her. But as his friend. Not as mine. She plays guitar with him. But I’m quite certain he will not like her popping out a baby that’s his half-brother or sister.”

“Again, you’re coddling him. I get it. He’s autistic. He reacts and adapts differently, but you have to let him deal with life. You can’t protect him from reality. And the realty is … you and Ellen are having a baby.”

“Thanks for the advice. I think. Give hugs to your big-ass Monaghan clan.”

“I’ll do that. And Flint?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations.”

I shake my head and disconnect the call.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ellen

After vomiting six times in one day, I start to lose my mind. I can’t do this. Pregnancy hormones are the devil. I’m six weeks pregnant at most. I can’t do this. My throat is raw. Every muscle in my stomach aches like I’ve been doing nonstop crunches. And I’m tired. So. Very. Tired.

“We’ll stay a bit longer until you get to feeling better, honey,” my grandma says, handing me a mug of ginger tea.

“Thank you.” I curl up on the sofa with my tea.

My dad studies me, but he doesn’t try to say anything or pick up his whiteboard. However, he has that look. It’s the same look he used to give me when I did something wrong as a child. He rarely had to say anything; he knew if he gave me “the look” long enough, I’d fall apart in a desperate confession of all my wrong doings.

“Do you want some tea too, Dad?”

He shakes his head.

I wish he’d stop studying me.

“Tomorrow night is New Year’s Eve. You should go out. Be young. Have fun.” My grandma smiles.

I’m green with oily hair. There might be some vomit in my hair as well. There’s over eight new inches of snow on the ground, and I haven’t lived here for years. But … bless her heart for thinking I might have some grand New Year’s Eve plans.

“I think I’ll save young and fun for next year. But thanks, Grandma.” I sip my tea, praying it stays down.

“Your grandpa saw Ron yesterday. Alex is home for the holidays. They might stop by later today.”

My dad makes a noise like he’s trying to speak, but it sends him into a coughing fit instead. After he gets past it, he scribbles on his whiteboard.

He owes you an apology.

Apology or not, I don’t want to see him. Not like this.

“I don’t know if today is a good day to visit. I’m not feeling well. I’d hate for anyone else to get sick.”

“I’m sure they won’t stay long, dear. If you’re not feeling well, just stay in your room. But Alex was your husband. I can’t imagine him not wanting to see you. Surely he’s seen you ill before.”

Ill? Yes. Pregnant? No.

As a new wave of nausea hits, I set down my tea and sprint to the upstairs bathroom. A little bit of tea mixed with bile is all that comes up. Lovely. After a quick rinse of my mouth, I make my way to the bedroom and collapse onto the bed. I grab my phone and type out a text of pure raging hormones.

ME: I hate you and this demon you put inside of me.

A few seconds later, my phone chimes.

FLINT: How are you?

ME: Fuck you.

FLINT: What do you need?

I laugh. What do I need? Really?

ME: To not be pregnant and sick.

FLINT: Do you mean that?

Tears sting my eyes. Yes and no. This wasn’t how I imagined my first pregnancy. I shouldn’t have texted him. Feeling shitty makes it hard to think straight. I bring up my favorite classical playlist and close my eyes, praying for peace, praying for sleep.

*

“Hey …”

I turn my head. It’s a good dream. I’m not sick.

“Hey … Elle …” The voice is distant, yet familiar. I haven’t heard it in my dreams for a while.

The exhaustion hasn’t left my body, but I pry open my eyes anyway.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Heard you weren’t feeling well.”

I scoot myself to a sitting position. “Alex …” My eyes go straight to his robotic-looking hands attached to his forearms and three remaining fingers.

“Pretty cool, huh?” He holds them up and wiggles the robotic fingers.

Pretty cool. Look at my new fingers. Let me mesmerize you with them so you don’t think about all the terrible things I said to you and all the awful names I called you.

“Alex …” I don’t even know what to say.

He looks at me like he did before he lost his hands. It’s as if those two years of hell never happened. The grudge I hold is tangible. It’s a living, breathing part of who I am. And I know this anger only survives because I still love him. The memories I have of the boy I fell in love with fifteen years ago have not faded one bit. I remember the love. It was real. We were real.

The love.

The exciting life.

The heartbreak.

The tragedy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, resting his hand on my leg. It’s the first time he’s touched me since he lost his hands.

He did the unforgivable and said the unthinkable. He broke me from the inside out and left me to pick up the pieces on my own. I’m not sure I even got all the pieces. Since that day, I’ve felt emotionally wrecked with uncleaned wounds and safety pins holding together my tattered heart.

Can all of that be forgiven with a simple “I’m sorry?”

“I’m going to be sick …” I leap off the bed and dash to the toilet.

There’s nothing more than a trickle of bile to burn my throat, just dry heaves racking my stomach. Even my ribs hurt. I flinch at the feel of something in my hair. It’s Alex’s hands pulling my hair out of my face. It feels like I’ve waited a lifetime for his touch. The day he lost part of his hands, I knew I’d love him no matter what. I knew I’d welcome the new and forever cherish what was left of the old. But he never gave me that chance.

“Stomach flu or food poisoning?” he asks, sitting on the floor behind me, pulling me onto his lap. It’s so tender. This is not the man who called me a needy cunt and threw my belongings in the yard. This is not the man who told me we died when he lost his everything. Funny … I thought I was his everything. Perspective is a sneaky little bitch.