Page 138 of Not Another Yesterday
I didn’t sleep at all last night. I don’t think Cat did, either. I felt her tossing and turning beside me, heard her sighing quietly in the dark. At some point I got up, paced the apartment, stood in front of the fridge like it might offer me something stronger than water. It didn’t. At 5:32 a.m., I gave up pretending I might fall asleep and put on my running shoes instead.
I prefer lifting heavy shit in the gym, but running’s good for when I need tooutrunsomething—anger, panic, ghosts. Right now, all three are on my heels.
It’s been four days since Cat told me she’s pregnant, and it still feels like I’ve been dropped into an episode ofThe Twilight Zone. Like I’m floating just above the surface of my own life, watching the craziest shit go down. None of this feels real. Not really. Except for the tightness in my chest that won’t go away. That part isveryreal.
I told Cat I never wanted to be a dad. That I couldn’t—shouldn’t—be one. That I didn’t trust myself notto turn into another link in the chain of violence passed down on my mother’s side. And now?
Now the universe, in its infinite sense of humor, has decided to make me a father before I’m even old enough to legally buy a beer. And god, I couldreallyuse one right now. Or better yet, a shot of whiskey. Or seven.Fuck.
I push myself harder. Faster. I don’t stop until my body’s begging me to. And even then, I keep going. Pain makes more sense than anything else right now. But the thoughts don’t stop.
First, our living situation. The apartment is too small. Shane says he’s cool with a newborn in the place, but we’re already on top of each other as it is. I’m not even sure my room can accommodate a crib, let alone a changing table and all the other baby gear I stupidly started looking up on the internet yesterday, only to immediately spiral into a blind panic until I shut my phone off. Like,offoff. There’s so much we need.
Which brings me to my second concern: the money. Yeah, I work. A lot. But I make barely over minimum wage an hour, and the tips aren’t a steady, reliable source of income. Some nights I make bank, other nights my tips aren’t enough to fill up my gas tank.
I haven’t brought any of this up to Cat yet. I can’t. Not until I have something solid to offer. What Idoknow is this: I won’t let her sacrifice anything. Not school. Not her career. Not the life she’s been working for. I won’t let her become my mom, stuck in a house with a baby she didn’t really want—at least not yet—living a life that wasn’t hers by choice.
Which flows nicely into issue number three: who the hell is going to watch this baby while we’re in class? Or at work? Our parents? Surely not. Daycare? Those places cost a fortune—definitely more than I make in tips. How does anyone do this? How the hell do actual adults survive it, let alone two broke college kids, one of whom still deals with C-PTSD?
I get back to the apartment just before seven, my body shot to hell but my mind no less frenzied. I was promised a runner’s high, god damn it.
Cat’s already up. She’s standing in the kitchen, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands. She’s wearing light blue jeans and one of my fitted t-shirts—oversized on her. She looks tired. Gorgeous. Human in a way that makes my chest ache.
I let my eyes drift from her face—still soft with sleep, hair wild from her restless night but so damn sexy—down to her midsection. Like I’m expecting to see a bump or some other sign confirming that I managed to detonate both our lives in a heartbeat.
Nothing. Not yet.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, peeling off my shirt, which is glued to my skin with sweat. I sling it over my shoulder, then grab a bottle of water from the fridge.
She shrugs. “Like I’m about to vomit, cry, and maybe scream all at the same time.”
“Cool. Same.” I take a step toward her, resting one hand lightly on the counter beside her. “Did you sleep?”
Another shrug. “Not really.”
“Me neither. I bet it’s my brain subconsciously making every last living minute count before either your dad or mine—or both—strangle me tonight.”
The joke doesn’t land. Cat’s just as terrified as I am about telling our families.
I take her hand and pull her into the tiny bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind us. Her eyebrows shoot up when I drop my sweats, then my boxers like it’s no big deal.
I catch the flick of her gaze—face, chest, dick—and the way she presses her lips together before catching the bottom one between her teeth. If my head were in a better place, I’d drag her into the shower with me, clothesand all.
“I just want you to hang out with me,” I say softly, then step underneath the shower’s blistering spray. It’s hotter than I usually like—Cat’s kind of temperature—but right now it feels good. My muscles melt under the heat, like they’ve been waiting for this moment of surrender.
She sinks down onto the closed toilet lid. “Okay, so walk me through the plan again?”
I squirt some bodywash into my palm, then lather myself up. “I’m getting my grandparents from the airport at four. I’ll tell them on the drive back. Hopefully that gives them enough time to go through all five stages of grief and be functional humans by dinner. We’re due at my dad’s around five. You’ll meet us there and… we’ll break the joyous news together.”
She looks up at me like I just said we’re planning a joint government coup. I guess, in a way, we are.
“Together,” she echoes.
“Unless you want to run.”
She gives a dry laugh. “Do you?”
“Every second.”
