Page 21 of Knocked Up
Which I now have to change. And that’s been overwhelming to think about.
I certainly don’t need his judgment about where I live, and the irony of that isn’t lost on me.
I kick several pairs of shoes out of the way and turn to Braxton, still standing in the doorway. “Thank you for the ride home.”
His black eyes narrow, scanning the room. They bounce back to me and land with a ferocious scowl. “You’re not staying here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t stay here. It’s too small. What are you going to do when you have our kid here?”
I should probably start planning for that. My apartment is so small I have no idea how I’ll fit a crib in. I shrug. “I’ll figure it out.”
He flashes me a look like he’s just stepped in a steaming pile of dog crap.
“Pack your shit. You’re moving in with me.”
What? He has to be kidding. “No! Why?”
“Because this place is a shithole in an unsafe neighborhood. You can barely walk up the stairs right now and you’ve been sick. You can’t stay here alone and there’s no place to put him or anything he’ll need, like a crib.” His eyes bounce around the room again. “Where do you even sleep?”
His last question is spewed out like a vicious whip.
I point to the couch before I understand why I’m explaining myself to him. How dare he think he can boss me around. “The couch pulls out and it’s plenty comfortable. It’ll be fine.”
“Good God. You can’t raise him like this—without a car to get around and walking five flights of stairs. How are you going to manage him with a stroller or diapers or groceries?”
He’s shaking his head.
My heels dig into the carpet.Him him him.Since when did our baby become a boy?
I curl my fingers around the door and lean toward him. “What if it’s not a him, Braxton?”
His head jerks back. “What?”
“You keep calling the baby a him. What if it’s a her?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
Gah! Men are so dense.
“I mean. What makes you suddenly think it’s a boy? And what if it’s a girl? Would you still be this bossy? Or even want it?”
Face paling, he looks like he’s the pregnant one with severe morning sickness.
“Holy—” He shakes his head rapidly. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t mean anything by it. Do you really think I’m that big of an asshole? I’m trying to take care of you. Of both of you.”
His expression is so shocked, sohurt,I’m unable to form words. I don’t even know where this sudden rage is coming from.
Instead, he takes my silence as an answer. “Wow. Okay then.” His shoulders drop and he runs a hand firmly down his face. “I’ll see you at the doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. Get some rest and make sure you take your medicine.”
He grabs the doorknob, pulling the door from my hand, and I stumble forward, barely catching myself before he slams it closed. His heavy footsteps echo down the hall until he hits the top step and I’m still left, staring at the door.
I want to run after him. Talk to him. Why is it every conversation we have ends in an argument when for one weekend, we got along so splendidly?
But the sudden movement of throwing open the door and starting to charge into the hall churns my stomach.
I do an about-face, run to my bathroom, and barely make it before I empty the contents of the meager breakfast Braxton had made for me.
