Page 121 of Embracing the Beat
“You gonna be sick?” the driver asks, and I shake my head.
“No.” At least I don’t think so.
“Here.” He hands me a little bag. “Just in case.”
I take the plastic from him, holding it in my hands as I try to distract myself and the somersaults turning in my stomach.
“Happen a lot?” I ask, and he eyes me in the rearview mirror. “People getting sick, I mean.”
“A few. I learned early on spending a couple bucks on a box of those beats having to clean my car after a drunk pukes in it.”
I wrinkle my nose as I consider the thought.
My stomach may not be calm, but I’m not going to be sick. I’m familiar with the signs since morning sickness and I palled around with each other for a few weeks.
“I think I’m okay.” I pass the plastic back up when he pulls into the driveway. Remote in hand, I point it at the gate so he can drive the rest of the way through.
“Have a good night.”
“You too.” My smile is strained since I have no idea what my night is going to turn into. Dread wars with nerves as memories of my last conversation with West surface.
Whose is it?
I’m not attracted to liars.
My steps falter up the path, and I stop, strongly considering texting him to reschedule.
No. I’m straightening out the rest of my life. Time to untangle this mess too.
The paternity results were delivered. I haven’t heard from him since then, but did I expect to?
He called. Several times.
But without any voicemails, I convinced myself they were accidental.
“Deep breaths, Kayla, you can do this,” I say, stepping in to the one-bedroom cottage.
I flip on several lights, confirming everything is picked up. Up until recently—this pregnancy, really—I’d been a massive slob. But suddenly the switch flipped, and I now needed everything in a place that makes sense. Sawyer and Mia have referred to it as “nesting” thanks to all the pregnancy books they’re reading. They’ve even swapped back and forth like a damn book club.
Ordinarily, I’d find it a little funny to see my six-foot-two, beefy, uncomfortable-with-attention brother trading pregnancy books with my petite famous-actress best friend. But when the two of them came at me with book reports of information, I drew the line. I tried a couple of the books but ended up imagining the worst-case scenarios, and decided ignorance was bliss.
The panel next to my door buzzes, alerting me that someone’s here. Sawyer would probably kill me, but I hit the button to open the gate without confirming that it’s West.
With a sigh, I step into the bathroom to check my reflection in the mirror.
The dark circles under my eyes are gone. My skin is healthy and—according to Mia—glowing. Since I was at the studio most of the day, my hair is in a messy bun. I consider pulling out the band and trying for something a little more put together, but the knock on the door tells me I’ve run out of time. I’m in a flowy t-shirt Mia loaned me and the shorts that are edging past the elastic-in-a-buttonhole level of comfort. I wish I had asked for an hour.
“Who cares what you look like? He won’t,” I tell myself firmly.
More confidence. I wish I had just a little more right now.
Another knock. I jolt, having spent more time in the bathroom after the first knock than I realized.
“Coming!”
I walk down the short hall, my breath catching in my lungs since he’s clearly visible through the glass door.
Residual hurt and anger still flutter, but seeing him brings concern to the mix. Maybe I should think he deserves to look like he’s lost weight, but I’m not that type of person. The hollows of his cheeks are pronounced under the dark circles that ring his eyes.
