Page 93 of Implode

No matter what happens, nothing will ever be the same again.

24

NIC

No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about Claire. I have lied to myself and acted like her being pregnant changes things, but in reality, it only makes me want her more. I don’t need a paternity test to keep me from already envisioning my life with her and this child. Sure, if Maxwell is the father, things will be vastly complicated. I believe his threats—as in he’ll try to take the baby away—but he is underestimating the invisible reach I have in this city. I’ll probably end up in prison myself for beating the shit out of him, but my feelings for Claire will still be there. I can’t shut them off. I can’t make them disappear.

The more she resists me, the more I want to throw her over my shoulder and take her away until she sees reason. There’s a connection there. I see it every time she looks at me and then looks away, as if staring at me causes her pain. I’ll do everything in my power to help her see that I’m a better man because of her. She has irrevocably changed me.

With Claire’s permission, I scheduled the test for after the wedding, hopefully when our schedules are less chaotic due to all the festivities.

I don’t want the test results to dictate my next moves, however. I love Claire. I need to tell her how I feel, and she needs to know that she is my priority—she and the baby—regardless of whether or not I am the father. But knowing my girl, I have to approach this with an actual strategy. Claire has been heartbroken too many times by the people who should have loved her unconditionally. I am guilty of hurting her too. I am a gambling man, though, and I am willing to bet that with some patience and perseverance, I can get her to see that we belong together.

I rest against my pillows and turn out my end table light. I am about to drift off to sleep when I hear a high-pitched shriek break through the silence of the house.

It’s Claire.

I fly out of bed and rush into the room beside mine where I know she is located.

“Baby?” I ask in the dark, feeling my way through the room until I reach her bed. “What’s wrong?”

I turn on the lamp and find my girl with tears dripping down her cheeks and her breath coming out in pants.

“I…I had a”—she pants—“bad dream.”

I sit on the side of her bed and open up my arms for her to climb into them. I scoot back so I can rest against the headboard and wrap us in the blanket that is at the foot of her bed. Her breathing is so erratic that I worry she is going to hyperventilate. I rub my hands up and down her back, pausing my rhythm to play with some locks of her hair.

“Do you want to tell me what you dreamed about?”

She shakes her head no and continues to sob into my neck. “It was horrible,” she gasped.

I play with the skin exposed from her sleep shirt slinking down over her shoulder. She is so soft and delicate, like the petals of a newly blossomed flower. I breathe in her vanilla scent and close my eyes as I wait for her breathing to calm and slow.

She clears her throat, and I wait for her to collect her thoughts. I resist kissing her neck, even though that is exactly what I want to do.

“I dreamed that the baby was ripped out of me,” she chokes out.

I hold her tight and run my hands over her back. I don’t know what to say, but I can totally see why she would be freaked out. I want to ask questions but I also don’t want her to have to relive her nightmare.

We scoot down and lie next to each other until her breathing returns to normal. Glancing down at her, I see her eyes are still open. “Try to go back to sleep,” I encourage. “You and the baby need your rest.”

Claire shakes her head. “I can’t. When I have such a vivid nightmare, it’s hard to fall back asleep.”

I kiss her forehead and start to sit us both up. “Throw on something warmer and grab your shoes.” I roll out of bed, smiling at Claire’s confused look.

“What? Why? Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

After Claire tosses on a sweatshirt and sneakers, I drag her by her hand out of the bedroom and next door to my room. I throw on a hoodie and slip on a pair of my Chucks. In my closet, I reach on top for a blanket, tugging it down from the shelf.

“What’s going on?” Claire asks again, watching from the doorway.

I smirk. “Patience.”

“Pretty sure I got that tested recently. I’m negative.”

I laugh over her cheesiness. I do prefer this over her indifference. Anything is better than being ignored.

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