Page 42 of Draft Pick

"I'm not gassy," I said, indignant.

"Girl, these walls are thin," Danielle quipped, and I nearly died of embarrassment.

"That was one night!" The baby didn't like when I ate anything with too much garlic. One lit match and the methane gas in my bedroom could've lit the apartment up like a torch. "And I've stopped eating garlic."

Danielle laughed. "That's what I'm saying though, if Cason can handle you when you're totally gross…he can handle anything."

I didn't want Cason to see me at my grossest, though. We hadn't even had time to settle into a familiar place with each other before he disappeared. I didn't want him to see me waddling around with swollen ankles and weird hairs springing from my chin from an overflow of hormones jacking up my metabolism.

"That's terrible advice," I grumbled. "I appreciate that what you're saying is coming from a place of love but please shut up — and never mention that night again."

Danielle's amusement faded as she tried one last time. "One more thing and I'll drop it — Cason might be a good guy and he might be a great father. Just because he's an athlete doesn't mean he's an asshole. Your last boyfriend Derek was a real jerk. He acted like he was all nice but he was really a flaming asshole. I never told you, but he came on to me multiple times when you weren't around and those kind of guys are just icky. The first time I met Cason, I was practically naked — and he still only had eyes for you."

I shifted with guilt, remembering how territorial I'd felt. Then, it occurred to me. Had Danielle done that on purpose to test Cason? The little vixen was kind of brilliant. Cason had passed the test. But then he ghosted me and hurt my feelings, so that fail canceled the previous win.

"Cason thinks he wants some thing and then he changes his mind," I told Danielle. "And there's no warning when he switches gears. One minute you're having the best day of your life and the next, you're left with the promise of a dinner date that never happens. I'm not going to let him do that to my baby. I can't have him say, 'Today, I want to be a dad but tomorrow, I don't'."

Danielle sensed my growing anxiety and wisely let it go, humming as she popped from the couch to dump her coffee and head for the shower. However, she couldn't help herself and sang, "Just think about it," before closing the door.

I didn't want to think about it. A part of me worried that I was being a cold bitch by cutting Cason out without giving him a chance to prove himself, but when I found myself wavering, I remembered how much it'd hurt when he bailed on me without a word. I couldn't put my baby in that kind of emotional danger.

Was I being melodramatic? Maybe. But I didn't know the first thing about being a mother, and I didn't want to screw up before the kid was even here.

How could I possibly decide to co-parent with a literal stranger? What I did know about Cason— all that football stuff — I found nonsensical. We had nothing in common.

Aside from insane chemistry.

And a similar sense of humor.

I didn't want to remember how he made me laugh that Sunday at the beach. I'm talking belly-laugh, not a polite chuckle or that weird giggle girls did when laughing at jokes that weren't funny because they were trying to flirt.

Full-on belly laugh.

And then the way he kissed. I missed the way he could weaken my knees with a single touch. It wasn't normal or natural to fall so quick and so hard for someone I barely knew.

Maybe none of what I experienced with Cason was genuine but a trauma response to my childhood.

Not that I had a bad childhood.

My mom had worked two jobs to support us. During the day, she worked as a cashier for a local boutique, and at night, she cleaned office buildings. We saw each other briefly between that window when her day job ended and her night job began, but we tried to pack a lot of sharing in that short space. I told her about my day at school, she shared the comings and goings of her customers, and then she helped me clean up the kitchen from dinner, and then she was out the door.

I was asleep by the time she came home.

I offered to get a part-time job to help out, but she was adamantly opposed, saying she wanted me to stay focused on school. I hated watching her struggle to make ends meet, and that guilt pushed me to get the best grades possible so her sacrifice would be worth it.

I was set to graduate with honors — but then my mom got cancer.

I graduated early so I could be home to help with her medicine and care for her. I watched my strong, capable, and independent mother deteriorate from the inside out. As I held her hand, waiting for the painkillers to kick in, I seethed with rage at the father I'd never known.

Heshould've been here holding her hand, seeing her through the worst moments like a partner promises during the honeymoon phase of dating.

But he wasn't there.

It was me.

A month after my mom passed, my diploma arrived in the mail. I stared at the oversized envelope, feeling numb to the accomplishment. My friends were still months away from walking the stage in front of friends and family, but I was sitting on my apartment floor, alone and empty.

My mom had prepared me for life when she was gone, but she hadn't prepared me for the weight of utter desolation that ground my soul to dust.

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