Page 50 of Hooked On Them

The baby. There was a tiny human growing inside Nora. My tiny human.

“I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t know how to be what she needs.”

Miles finally moved from his spot, coming to sit on the arm of the couch. “None of us do, man.”

The three of us sat there, surrounded by the wreckage of whatever the hell this situation had become. No one had a plan, no one knew what came next, and we were all caught in a mess that none of us knew how to clean up.

* * *

I wished I could say Miles, Carter, and I had a concrete plan on how to do whatever it was we were doing, but after my meltdown, I think we’d all hit our emotional limit. The conversation sort of... died. No yelling, no game plan. Just three guys sitting in silence, avoiding eye contact like it was contagious. Carter eventually left. Miles gave me a look that saidget your shit togetherand followed. I’ve been sitting on my couch ever since, staring at my phone like it might text Nora for me until my thumbs finally flew over my screen.

Me: Are you okay?

Nora: I’m fine.

Me: Isn’t that woman-speak for not fine?

Nora: If I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me if I was fine in my life, I’d be chilling on a beach somewhere.

Me: On a scale of one to ten, how fucked up is your head right now?

Nora: A solid nine. You?

Me: A six.

Nora: I don’t know if I should laugh at that like a thirteen-year-old or cry.

Me: Why would that make you cry?

Nora: I don’t know. I cried earlier when I realized there was only one brownie bite left.

Me: That’s very cry-worthy. Want some company?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared several times, and I ran my hand down my face, wondering if I should go over there. We hadn’t really had a chance to talk alone after she told me she was pregnant a few days ago. The team had an away series, and then today was our first full day back.

Nora: Yes.

Me: Send me your address.

I let out a sigh of relief and got my ass up off the couch where I’d been parked for the last several hours watching games.

I scanned my fridge twice before accepting the sad truth that I had jack shit to take over to Nora’s place. Throwing on a baseball cap and a dark hoodie, I grabbed my wallet and phone and headed out, my mind racing with everything I probably shouldn’t say when I saw her.

The corner market was only two blocks over. I walked quickly, hands jammed in my pockets like I was trying to hide from paparazzi instead of avoiding eye contact with the occasional late-night dog walker.

The fluorescent lights inside the store made me squint as I grabbed a red basket and headed straight for the dessert aisle. Brownie bites. The woman was upset about brownie bites, so clearly that was the minimum requirement for this visit.

I stood there like a moron, staring at approximately seventeen different varieties of brownie bites. Chocolate chunk? Triple fudge? Mini? Family size? What the fuck was the difference between fudgy and chewy? Who designed this hellscape of confusing dessert options?

I decided to get several, sweeping three different packages into my basket. Ice cream seemed like a logical next step. I wandered to the freezer section, where my indecision reached new, impressive heights. Did pregnant women even want the same things as usual? Was there some secret pregnancy flavor I was supposed to know about?

My basket gradually filled with three pints of different flavors, a package of Oreos (because why the fuck not), salt and vinegar chips (a guess), sour gummy worms (a prayer), and a box of frozen mozzarella sticks (because I’d want them).

“Holy shit, are you Dominic Wilson?”

I turned to find a kid who couldn’t be more than sixteen staring at me with wide eyes, a slushie clutched in one hand.

“Uh, yeah.” I shifted my basket behind me like I was hiding contraband instead of junk food.

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