Page 18 of Knocked Up
Braxton
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Between the reality of the last twenty-four hours crashing around me, along with the girl I’ve wanted—dreamed of—sleeping in my apartment, as well as trying to sleep on the couch so I can hear Cara if she needs me, I’m up and showered and ready for the morning by six.
We have too many things to talk about, and I’ll rest once we get them settled. First thing, her doctor in the emergency room yesterday suggested she contact her regular obstetrician to set up an appointment and verify everything is okay. We didn’t even have time yesterday to talk about her doctor’s appointments, if she wants me to come with her, orwhoher doctor is.
I want to know all of it, and not just the pregnancy.
I want to know more about Cara. Her apology yesterday still shakes me, and I’m trying not to think about the fact she’d never had a one-night stand before. Isn’t it a rite of passage for everyone in college these days? My amount of one-nighters is uncountable. They’re easier than relationships. And she certainly wasn’t a virgin the night we were together. She was way too talented to be pure.
There’s something inside of me that makes me want to pound my chest in victory and issue a battle cry at the idea Cara, someone who doesn’t use sex for sport but for connection and passion, choseme.
It means she wanted more than just my dick, something I’d been certain was all she wanted when she fled the room like the hounds of hell were chasing her.
Now things are different. She could only have reacted the way she did last night if she still wanted me, if the night meant just as much to her as it did to me.
I don’t just want this baby, I want a family.
She’s going to be the one to give it to me while I work my ass off to give her everything she needs.
Reaching beneath the collar of my shirt, I tug on the ridiculous necklace I’ve worn since I was eight. Irvin and I bought it at an arcade, one of those stupid penny presser things. I carried it in my pocket for months until I lost it, but Irvin had found it, drilled a hole in it and slid it onto a chain so I wouldn’t lose it again.
I take it off to sleep and that’s it.
I press the faux-gold coin to my lips. “This is for all you’ve done for me, man.”
Like always when I think of Irvin and everything he gave me, not just his investments, but saving me from a life on the streets, my chest burns.
Yet it’s rarely in as much pain as it was when he first passed.
It’s strength. Confidence. I might have been sired by a heroin addict who took off as soon as he got off, but Irvin is the man who made me. And Irvin Teller is a thousand times the man I can only ever hope to be.
I know exactly what he’d say to me if he were standing in front of me. He’d clasp my hand, pull me to his chest, and he’d wrap me into one of his comforting bear hugs, all while whispering, “Go and get your girl, young man, and make sure you treat her right.”
“Will do, old man.” I kiss it again and slip the necklace back beneath my shirt.
In the kitchen, I grab crackers and 7 Up for Cara and head to her room. I’ve already let Lucy out more than once this morning and as soon as we came back, she trotted to Cara’s doorway, and lay down across the threshold.
I’ve checked on her several times and she hasn’t moved, but when I round the corner this time she’s sitting, nose almost pressed to the door, and a tinny whine escapes her.
“What is it?” I ask.
I haven’t had Lucy long, but I’m more than amazed at how she wants to be close to Cara. Dogs are good judges of people and even without Cara’s apology last night, I was halfway to letting it go based on Lucy’s reaction alone.
As Lucy continues to whine and scratch the door, my steps speed. Her ears are pulled back, on alert, and I’ve long since learned dogs know more than we think they do. Shoving aside manners and politeness, I open the door to Cara’s room expecting to see her still sleeping. Instead, her covers are thrown back and the bed is empty.
The bathroom door is closed but the light is on, coming from beneath the door and eventually, so is the vivid sound of retching.
“Shit.” I drop the crackers and pop on the dresser and move double-time to the bathroom, where I find Cara’s hunched over the toilet.
Lucy is behind me, whining, but it’s Cara who has my full attention.
I crouch behind her and gather her long, thick chocolate-colored hair in my fist. “You’re okay,” I tell her.
“Oh my God. Go away.”
She’s not currently puking but her arms are crossed over the toilet seat, her head resting on her forearms.
She reaches up and flushes, then settles back to her spot.
