Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) Page 13

  “Sorry,” I say, “I was just, uh, goin’ to get dressed and got dizzy.”

  “You need to have that checked out,” he says, sighing as he picks up his suit coat. “I’ll see you at the gallery.”

  As I watch him leave, my hand flutters to my stomach and I stand there quietly.

  Tonight.

  I’ll tell him tonight.

  Tristan and I have orbited around each other all day. I’ve stayed out of his way, and he seems to be avoiding me. My stomach is in knots, and I don’t know if it’s because of my nerves or the baby.

  I’m still trying to come to terms with that.

  I guess I better get used to it, because if my calculations are right, and I think they are, I’m almost two months along . . . or more. But from what I read online, it says most morning sickness usually happens in the first trimester, or in my case all day sickness. The waves of nausea hit me at random. The only good thing is that I also read morning sickness is a positive thing. It means your pregnancy hormones are high, which is good.

  I honestly don’t know how I missed the signs. When I didn’t have a period last month, I didn’t think much about it. I chalked it up to a crazy schedule and lack of sleep. That’s happened to me before, so I didn’t worry . . . and honestly, I kinda forgot about it.

  When I see Tristan pack up his messenger bag, I know it’s about that time. Part of me wants to make up an excuse to stay here a little longer, avoiding the inevitable, but the other part of me wants to go back to his apartment and get it over with.

  That thought makes it sound like I’m telling him bad news, but I don’t feel like this is bad news.

  A baby is never a bad thing.

  I keep telling myself that and hope that if I stay positive about it, Tristan will be too.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, flipping off a few lights on his way to my desk.

  “Uh, yeah, just let me grab my bag,” I tell him.

  “Sushi?” he asks.

  My eyes grow wide, and I freeze as I’m bending over.

  That was the first thing I looked up this morning, the dos and don’ts of pregnancy. Sushi is one of the things you’re not supposed to eat.

  “Uh,” I say, delaying. “I’m still not feeling well. Sushi probably wouldn’t be a good choice.”

  Tristan lets out a frustrated sigh like I just ruined his whole evening.

  “Fine,” he says, “what sounds good to you, Camille?” His tone is so condescending, I’d like to shove my knee right in his balls, but I don’t want the evening to start out with a fight.

  “You know what, sushi is fine. I’ll just get some soup or something.”

  “No, it’s fine, Mon Cheri,” he concedes, a change in his tone. “How about a muffuletta from Cochon Butcher? You like those, right?” His voice has turned sweet as he walks up to me and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me to him. This is Tristan; he’s a complete ass one minute, and then he tries to make up for it the next.

  “That sounds amazing,” I tell him, leaning into his chest. I really could use a soft place to land right now, and I hope Tristan can be that. He has to be.

  We’re going to be parents.

  Panic rises inside me for the hundredth time today, but I tamp it down and put a smile on my face.

  Everything is going to be fine.

  Later, when Tristan heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth before bed, I begin to pace. There’s no way I can go to sleep without telling him. The anxiety from it all about killed me today. Anxiety can’t be good for a growing baby. I can’t go through that again tomorrow.

  Besides, I desperately want to call Annie. I need a woman to talk to, but I can’t call anyone until Tristan knows. So, it has to happen now.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, walking out of the bathroom and catching me mid-pace.

  “Can we talk?” I ask, clasping my hands together in front of me to keep myself from worrying them to death.

  “Camille, if this is about my mood lately, I’m just really stressed with work right now,” he says with a huff.

  Of course, because it’s always about Tristan.

  “It’s not about that,” I assure him.

  “Then, what is it?”

  “I . . . well,” I say, trying to think of the right words and the perfect way to say them. Finally, I just square my shoulders, remind myself of Annie’s words—babies are never a bad thing—and spit it out. “I’m pregnant.”

  There, that’s wasn’t so hard. Simple. Two little words—I’m pregnant.

  But those two little words hang in the air like a weighted-down balloon.

  Tristan’s focus is on the floor. He’s yet to make eye contact with me or move. His hand is frozen in his hair, and I almost say something, anything, to get him out of the trance, but then he snaps.

  “What the fuck, Camille?”

  The way his face is turning a vibrant shade of red reminds me of a day not long ago when he showed up at my apartment after one of our monumental fights. He scared me that day and today is no different, but there’s even more on the line now. Even in the dim light of the bedroom, I can see the veins popping out of his neck as he screams my name. Everyone in a two- block radius probably heard him.

  His hand comes down swiftly on the dresser, and the loud bang makes me jump.

  I think about apologizing, but for what? For carrying a life inside of me, one that is part me and part him? I can’t apologize for that. The last time I checked, it takes two people to make a baby.

  Instead, I stand there as still as a statue and wait for him to calm down and think clearly.

  But that doesn’t happen.

  His hand, the one he slammed down just a few seconds ago, swipes across the polished wood and clearing the contents of the dresser.

  The box he keeps all of his watches in flies across the room, barely missing my head before making contact with the wall. The rest of the stuff falls to the floor in disarray. Thank goodness for carpet, or most of it would’ve shattered, including the picture of us he had framed. It was taken a year after we started dating. I remember feeling so happy that day, like maybe he was someone I could spend the rest of my life with. But like that picture, I’m now displaced and on the verge of breaking.

  “It’s a baby. Babies are supposed to be—” I start, hoping I can somehow make him see things clearly, make him want this life inside me . . . make him want me, but he cuts me off.

  “What, Camille? Babies are supposed to be what?” he asks, grabbing my arms and pushing me back.

  The tears start flowing immediately, partially from pain and partially from fear—fear of the unknown, fear for my baby, fear of him.

  “Let go,” I plead, unable to stop crying.

  “What did you think my reaction would be?” he asks, loosening his grip just a little and I think for a moment that maybe, just maybe he’ll come around. “You just graduated and finally started your career. This is no time for a baby!”

  “It’s not like I planned it.”

  “You better hope to God I never find out you planned it,” he says, the ice in his voice chilling me to the bone.

  “I—I didn’t. I would never do anything like that behind your back,” I sob.

  “Well, then how did this happen?” he asks, accusation dripping from his words.

  “I don’t know. I take my pill every day,” I promise. “It just happened. Sometimes things just happen.” My voice rises and I sound a bit desperate . . . desperate for him to believe me . . . to understand and accept this baby, our baby.

  I want to say that maybe this happened for a reason and that sometimes God has a different plan than we do, but I don’t say that because that would only piss him off more.

  “I need some air,” he says abruptly, dropping my arms and walking to his closet.

  I stand there, trying to figure out how this all went so wrong, but I can’t.

  A few minutes later, he walks back out wearing slacks and a sweater. He grabs his wallet and ke
ys and walks out the door. Just like that. No more words. Not even a backward glance.

  When he’s gone, the tears start falling. I feel alone and scared. The only thing I can think of right now is home.

  I want to go home home, but my apartment will have to do for now.

  After I slip on my shoes and grab my bag, I head out the door, wiping my face on my shirt. I’m sure I look like a hot mess, but I don’t care. I just want out of here.

  Tucker is the first person who comes to mind after I get inside my apartment; he’s always up late. I’m not sure where he is right now, but I know he’s only a phone call away. I don’t know how much I’m willing to tell him over the phone, but hearing his voice will hopefully be enough. Sometimes, you just need your big brother.

  I dial Tucker’s number, and it rings five times, then goes to voicemail.

  I don’t leave a message, but I do listen to his recorded one.

  “Hey, this is Tucker. If you leave me a message, I’ll call you soon. If you leave me a sexy message, I’ll call you sooner.”

  His crazy ass makes me half smile. If I wasn’t so upset, it would be a full one, but I just can’t manage that right now.

  All of Tristan’s hateful words and actions are playing on repeat in my mind—the way his face gets red when he’s mad, his icy glare and rough hands. I’ve never been afraid of Tristan, but I was tonight. Maybe not for me, but definitely for the innocent life inside me.

  When my phone rings in my hand, I answer it without looking.

  “Hey.”

  “Cam?” he asks, practically yelling into the phone over the noise in the background.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “What’s up?” he asks, the voices and music fading.

  “Nothing, I just . . . I just wanted to say hey,” I tell him, trying to keep from crying.

  “What’s wrong?” His voice takes a more serious tone.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. Since when do you call me on a random Tuesday night at midnight?”

  “I just miss you,” I tell him, and that’s the truth. I miss him right now more than I ever have in my life.

  “Cami, what’s wrong? You know you can tell me.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, and a few unshed tears roll down my cheek.

  I can’t tell him.

  How am I going to tell him?

  “Are you crying?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, sniffling and not sounding very convincing. “I’m fine. I promise.”

  I will be.

  I’ll be fine.

  I can handle this.

  “Is it that fuckin’ asshole?” Tucker asks with fire in his voice. “I swear to God . . .”

  “No,” I lie, because it is. It’s all Tristan. If he’d have just been happy about the baby, or at least civil, I wouldn’t be having a near-breakdown right now. I feel my hands start to shake as my whole body trembles from a sob I’m trying to hold inside.

  “I wish there were somethin’ I could do,” he says solemnly. “I hate not bein’ there.”

  “Come get me?” I ask out of the blue, not even thinking. I don’t want to put him out, but I know I’m in no shape to drive myself. And I just want to go home. Not here. Not this apartment. I want home.

  “I would,” he says followed by a deep, frustrated sigh, “but I can’t. I’m in fuckin’ California.”

  California?

  Of course.

  The tour.

  “It’s fine,” I say, sucking up my tears as my heart drops. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I called you while you’re out on the road. I know you have enough stuff to worry about,” I say, feeling even worse now.

  “Don’t ever apologize for callin’ me,” he says sternly, sounding a lot like Daddy.

  Oh, God.

  I can’t tell Daddy.

  “I’m gonna go to bed,” I say. “It’ll look better in the mornin’, right?”

  That’s what Daddy would say.

  “Yeah,” Tucker sighs, but I can tell he’s not convinced. “Get some rest. I’ll call you in the mornin’.”

  “Love you,” I tell him.

  “Love you too.”

  When he hangs up, I stand up and walk to the door, checking the deadbolt on my front door. And with the last bit of energy I have left, I crawl into my bed and pull my pillow close, hugging it to me.

  Maybe a good night’s sleep will make all of this better.

  It takes me awhile to go to sleep, but finally my mind unwillingly slows down enough. I’m deep in some crazy dream that doesn’t make sense when a loud banging on my door startles me awake. At first, I think it’s part of the dream, but then it continues.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  Slipping out of bed and tip-toeing to the door, I check the peephole.

  Tristan.

  He’s standing there, looking worse for wear under the pale light outside my door. My heart breaks a little for him, because he looks vulnerable and undone, and that’s not him. I know how he’s feeling—shocked, blindsided. Finding out you’re having a baby is startling. Trust me, I know.

  Even though I’m still pissed at how he acted earlier, I take pity on him and crack the door open.

  “Hey,” he says, at least having the decency to wince, because I’m sure he can tell I was sleeping. “I was worried when I got back to my apartment and you were gone.”

  “I figured you’d know where I went.”

  “Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands down in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” I open the door wider, letting him inside.

  He looks around my apartment and then spins on his heels back toward me.

  “You dropped a bomb on me tonight,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t like being caught off guard like that.”

  I think he expects me to say something, maybe even apologize, but that’s not going to happen. I cross my arms tighter over my chest, like a shield.

  He laughs harshly and runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, Camille. I don’t think either of us wants this. We,” he pauses, gesturing between the two of us. “We’re busy people. You have your art, and I have the gallery. A baby doesn’t exactly fit into that kind of lifestyle.”

  I cock my head at him and try to figure out where this is going. I don’t like him saying neither of us wants this. I might not have asked for this or planned this, but now that this is here, I don’t want anything but this.

  This needs me.

  My hand instinctively goes to my flat stomach.

  “We can take care of this and everything can go back to normal,” he continues, sounding confident in his plan. “We’ll forget it ever happened. And our lives can continue as planned.”

  “Take care?” I ask. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Abortion, Camille. I’m talking about an abortion.” He says the words like I’m a child who might not understand them, but I do. I understand them completely.

  “Get out,” I seethe, standing back and opening the door. My blood is boiling. Fierceness rises within me, and it’s all I can do to keep from physically harming him.

  “What?” he asks incredulously.

  “Get out!” I scream, my words coming out just as loud as his did earlier. I feel myself losing it. My hands are shaking, and the tears are threatening to make a reappearance.

  “Mon Cheri,” Tristan croons, walking closer, using that sickening tone he always does when he’s screwed up and is trying to make me forget that he’s an asshole. But the second his hand touches me, I jump back, bumping into the door.

  “Don’t call me that! Ever! I hate it!” I scream, losing what little control I had.

  “Camille,” he says with more force, grabbing my arms. “Calm down. You’re being completely irrational.”

  “Get the fuck out of my apartment!” I cry, squeezing my eyes shut and willing him away.

&n
bsp; I don’t want him.

  I don’t want him to touch me or call me his stupid pet name or hear how he thinks we can take care of this situation.

  I just want him out.

  Out of everything.

  My apartment.

  My sight.

  My life.

  “Camille,” he says again, acid dripping from my name. “If I leave here tonight, I’m not coming back. If you keep it, I’m not claiming it. I never wanted kids, and I won’t let you ruin my fucking life. Do you understand me?” His face is furious and right in front of mine, our noses practically touching.

  “Get your fuckin’ hands off her.” A low, menacing voice comes from outside my open door.

  Tristan’s grip loosens on my arms, and he takes a small step back to see who’s speaking.

  “Did you fuckin’ hear me?” the voice rings out again, probably waking up any neighbors who were still sleeping.

  I’d know that voice anywhere.

  Deacon.

  Deacon Landry is standing on my doorstep, staring Tristan down like he’s the devil incarnate, and relief floods my body. I don’t know why he’s here, but I have a guess, and I’ve never been so happy to see him.

  Tristan must get the message because he backs away.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Tristan snarls.

  “If I ever see you touch her like that again, you’ll leave in a body bag.” Deacon’s voice is menacing, threatening and he completely ignores Tristan’s question.

  Tristan laughs, shaking his head. “I’m not afraid of empty threats,” he says, bumping Deacon’s shoulder as he walks past him.

  “Deacon,” I say, not wanting any more craziness for the night. I don’t think I can handle it. He must see I’m at my breaking point because he gives Tristan a wide berth to let him pass.

  When Tristan gets to the bottom of the steps, he turns around, pointing his finger at me. “I meant what I said, Camille.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You’ll never hear from me again.”

  And like that, he gets into his car and peels out, leaving me standing there with Deacon.

  “What are you doin’ here?” I ask, trying to keep from crying now because it’s so good to see him.

  “I’m here to get you. Pack your bag. We’re goin’ home,” Deacon says, watching out the door, like he’s worried Tristan will show back up.