Page 14 of The Bartender's Baby

“When are you doing that?”

She snatched her phone back and stomped out of the bar. “Tomorrow.”

I followed her, pointing at my car. She didn’t seem like she wanted to get in. Would rather take a frying pan to the head. Tempting.

I opened the passenger side door and all but tossed her inside. Even went so far as to buckle her seat belt myself.

She seethed silently as I took my seat behind the wheel, turning over the ignition.

“Who are you selling it to?” I asked, pumping the heat up and aiming the vents at Tabby.

“A guy I know through the motorcycle garage.”

“Do you know him well? How do you know he’s not a serial killer?”

“Because he’s a retired middle school teacher who looks like Bob Ross.”

“Not-so-happy accidents can happen with happy little trees.”

She rubbed at her forehead. “You are insufferable.”

“Where are you buying your car from? Do you have one picked out already? Have you test-driven?—”

“Nate, I don’t need you up in my business. I’m taking care of it.”

“You know you don’t have to, though, right? I’m all for you doing what you want, but you don’thaveto.”

“I do, though,” she murmured, so I leaned over, leading with my ear to make sure I heard her correctly.

“You do, though?”

“I don’t have anyone else to do it for me, so…”

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel because I was sitting right here next to her. I volunteered as tribute. But of course, she didn’t see it. She’d been on her own for so long, she’d probably lost the ability to ask for help or even recognize when she needed it.

“I’ve made my decision. I’m keeping the baby, and I can figure everything out on my own. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” I repeated in a grumble, stewing in my own frustration.

We spent the rest of the ride in silence, save for the nearly muted volume of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” Until I stopped in front of the little house I knew she shared with some grad student. I’d never been inside, but I could guess it was a pieceof shit, like some of these college rentals were. Most likely full of busted tile and peeling paint.

“You know when this house was built?” I asked, and she shook her head.

“Seventies, I think.”

I hummed. They were still manufacturing lead paint in the 1970s. “You don’t have any weird symptoms? Vomiting, fatigue, joint pain…?”

“You’re basically describing pregnancy.”

I made a mental note to find out more information about this house, and I waited until she was safely ensconced inside before driving the few minutes to my place. Though, it was a few more hours until I finally finished my research on lead poisoning.

And yeah, she had to get the hell out of that house.

FOUR

TABBY

Ibid farewell to my bike the next morning without any tears but didn’t have the patience to go to the car lot like I’d planned, so I stayed in bed, getting a jump start on my weekend homework. Good thing, too, because a delivery showed up on my stoop. Bags of groceries.

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