Page 21 of Love Me

Chapter 11

Owen unconsciously squeezed my body closer, his face nuzzling my hair in his sleep. It was three a.m., but I was wide awake. I had one thought on my mind, flashing like a billboard: this child growing inside of me was mine, and it was my duty to protect it.

I had considered alternatives vaguely. If Regina, my mother, had raised me when my biological father had refused to make us an official family, even after he finally deserted us entirely, then I could raise a child with or without the father’s help too. It didn’t matter if Owen wanted any part of it. With or without the father, this child deserved everything I could possibly give it. I wanted Owen to be a part of this child’s life, but I wasn’t going to beg him to stay.

Owen stirred as I got out of the bed. I paused, waiting for him to settle. He turned over, a sleepy sigh escaping his lips. I quietly walked to the studio. I sat cross-legged on top of a drop cloth and mixed the alginate powder with water. I pulled off my underwear and spread the blue substance over my stomach to the underside of my breasts and the top of my mound. Once it set, I covered the same area in plaster bandages.

I laid on the ground, waiting for it to set completely. I wondered how my mother told Grayson about me, if she had had me to save their relationship, and how even when he said he didn’t want me, she knew she wanted me. Owen’s only choice in the matter was whether he wanted to be apart of this new person’s life. I knew what I had to do.

That morning as I waited for the resin to set in the new body mold, I walked through the condo. I could smell the scotch from outside of the study. I knew it was my heightened sense of smell from the baby growing inside of me, but the mere scent of it disturbed me. I quickly grabbed the bottles and tossed them into the studio’s garbage, the biggest bin in the condo. I found every bottle I could find and got rid of them. Part of me was doing it for the pregnancy, and the other part of me was afraid of becoming my mother. As far as I knew, she hadn’t had alcohol during the pregnancy, but by the time I had memory, she was inseparable from the bottle. I knew I had tendencies like her in a lot of ways I didn’t want to admit, and I wasn’t going to let myself slip down that path too.

It took me a while to find an obstetrician who would take uninsured patients but also took the health care Diana said she would eventually provide, but I found one and made an appointment. Their earliest available slot was in six weeks. I could do that.

After I hung up the phone, I set a tiny red stone inside of the resin. Standing above it, it looked like it was glowing, like a light at the end of a tunnel.

I locked the door to the studio, letting the materials set alone. I didn’t want Owen to see what I was creating, not until it was ready. Not until I was ready.

Owen took a bottled water from the mini-fridge tucked inside of the cabinet in the study and drank from it, like he had always had water after work. After living with him for a few months, I knew this wasn’t true. He had his habits, like anyone did, and when I threw away his entire stash of alcohol, I knew I was taking a chance by disrupting the peace of those routines. In a way, I was testing Owen’s reactions, like I knew he tested mine. Could he handle a clean and child-friendly environment?

As soon as he looked at me, I hastily said, “My mother was an alcoholic.” He nodded with mild interest, which made me realize that he wasn’t going to question it in the first place, but I kept babbling. “And after my track record—” I thought about Surrender, how I had blacked out from drinking in anger, “—-I figured I should take it easy.”

“Did you make an appointment?” he asked, changing the subject.

“You have a one-track mind,” I said.

“When it comes to your health, I do.”

I rolled my eyes. “I did.”

“When?”

“On the thirty-first.”

“Of this month?”

“Next.” His mouth closed, tension crossing his brows. “It was their next avail—”

“If you had let me make the appointment, you wouldn’t have to wait.”

I looked him in the eyes. I wasn’t afraid of doing things my way, especially when it came to my health and the fact that it would affect our future.

“But I made the appointment,” I said.

He sucked in a breath and sighed. “You did.”

I forced a smile and said, “I might not be sick by then. Who knows.”

A coldness in his eyes flashed for a brief second, then dissipated. “You might not be vomiting by then,” he said coolly, “but this kind of condition lasts for a long time.”

Condition? “What kind of condition?” I asked.

“The kind you choose to discuss when you’re ready,” he said.

He turned towards the door, heading to his office. He knew more than he was willing to say aloud. I wanted to thank him for understanding that I couldn’t talk about it right then, not even if I wanted to.

“Hey,” I said. He paused. “Thanks.”

He nodded curtly and left.

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