Page 84 of The One I Hate
I go on to explain our fall-out two days ago; as I repeat it the sordid tale, I’m even more embarrassed than I was then.
His sister. All these years and all my rage, and it was because of his sister. And worse, I shut him out. I disappeared from the world and left him hanging.
I don’t need an internet forum to tell me what I now know: Iamthe asshole.
“I want to apologize, but what do I say? I’ve held a grudge for years because of my own insecurities and past pretenses. How do you apologize for something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Mellie says. “Cook for him?”
I appreciate Mellie’s attempt to lighten the mood, but it’s not working. “Thanks. I don’t know if there’s enough french toast in the world to make up for this.”
A banging on the door, followed by Simon’s voice startles me. “Bug! Charlie! Open the door!”
How loud is he yelling? I’m in the back of the apartment, and I can hear him clear as day.
“Shit! What is he doing here?”
“Coming for french toast?”
“You’re not helping!” I say, doing my best to stand up, despite being a little lightheaded. “He can’t see me like this!”
“Charlie! If you don’t open the door in thirty seconds, I’m breaking it down.”
“You splash some water on your face. I’ll go let him in.” Mellie gives me a quick hug before exiting the bathroom, leaving me to gather myself.
I stare at my reflection and debate if this is the time to tell him. The short answer is yes. I have to. For one, I don’t know why he’s here, but if it’s to tell me he never wants to see me again—which I’d understand—I need him to know. After what Lila’s mom did to Connor, I will not keep the other parent of this child in the dark.
“We got this.” I put my hand over my stomach, which somehow gives me the little bit of strength I need to turn and leave the bathroom. But before I can even take a step out of the door, Simon comes barreling in, almost running me over as he barges into my bathroom.
“What the hell?”
“Are you okay?”
His eyes are wild and his breathing is heavy. His hands are holding my face like he’s checking to make sure I’m not hurt.
“I’m fine.” Relatively speaking. “I should be asking if you’re okay. Why are you rushing in here? And what’s in the bag?”
“Me. I’m fine. In the bag?” He opens it up looks down at the inventory. “Four different kinds of medicines. A bottle of orange juice. Ginger ale. And an essential oil that a girl with a nose ring at the counter slipped in for free. But enough about that. Are you okay? I was worried.”
“How did you know I was sick?”
Simon’s breathing finally slows. “Emmett said you weren’t picking up your phone and Mellie couldn’t get in—lovely girl, by the way—so he let her in. Then he noticed that she left but came back an hour later with a bag from a drug store. So I took a shot.”
I’m too confused to be grateful. “Wait a second. You got all of this from Emmett? Why are you talking to my building manager?”
He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out for a few seconds. “I stopped by. Saw him here. Never mind that. Are you okay?”
“Let’s go talk in the living room,” I say, guiding him out of the bathroom before he spies the pregnancy tests lining my sink. Thank goodness my hips are big enough to block views sometimes. Really comes in handy.
“Sit.” I sit next to him as he puts his bag of drug store remedies on the coffee table. “Before you say anything else, I need to say I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t care.”
Excuse me? “You don’t care?”
“Well, I do care. Thank you. I really do. That’s not what I meant to say. And you can say you’re sorry later. But I need to say what I practiced or I’m going to forget it.”
“You practiced what you wanted to say? Like in front of a mirror?”
