Shatter (True Believers #4)(20)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Sorry. Nathan showed up.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” I honestly had no idea what his goal was other than to hurt me.

“You didn’t tell him about the baby, did you?”

“Of course not!” The thought made me shudder. “Ugh. He never needs to know as far as I’m concerned.”

“Agreed. He’s a dick. Now listen, I talked to Rory and the boys and we think you should move in with Rory and Tyler now that Robin and Phoenix are moving out.”

The thought was instantly appealing. “But what am I supposed to do with this apartment?”

“Sublet it. Someone sublet it to you.”

I sighed and looked at Jonathon’s e-mail that was still on my screen. “Don’t you think that apartment Rory is living in is cursed or something? Everyone has moved in and out like five times. Besides, do Rory and Tyler really want a preggers roommate?”

“You can take the room upstairs. They spend all their time downstairs. And then you won’t be alone and they can help you if you need it. We don’t want you alone.”

I didn’t want me alone, either. “I’ll think about it. That’s nice of them. I appreciate it.”

What I wanted was what I couldn’t have.

If you had asked me what that was six weeks ago I would have said it was for Nathan to never have cheated on me.

Now it wasn’t that at all.

What I wanted was to unwind to the beginning with Jonathon and date him, because I liked him. He had a nice smile. He was thoughtful. He smelled good. When I had seen him in the coffee shop tonight for the first time since November, I had wanted him to kiss me. I was fighting nausea but I had still seen him and felt an ache deep down between my thighs and I had wanted his mouth on mine.

He had squeezed my shoulder instead.

I had to be realistic that all we could ever be was friendly co-parents.

Sigh. And sigh again.

It took me twenty minutes to figure out how to answer Jonathon.

Sounds like a positive reaction. ?

He LOL’d me right back.

Then it seemed trying to be brilliant and flirty was too taxing for me because I fell asleep before I could respond.

* * *

Two weeks later I didn’t care if I ever heard from Jonathon or any human being ever again. I was pretty sure that I was, in fact, dying. There was no way a microscopic fetus should be causing me to feel like I had the flu paired with mono with an extra dose of hangover on top. Every time I turned my head my stomach protested and every time I ate or drank I promptly puked it back up. I had the shakes and the sweats, and I dozed in and out of sleep. I hadn’t left my room in three days and there was dried vomit on my comforter from when I hadn’t been able to muster enough energy to get to the bathroom before I threw up. My room reeked. I reeked. My hair was limp and greasy. My face felt like it could be tapped for crude oil, so much yuck was gushing from my pores.

I thought about calling my mom and begging her to come and get me and take me home to Troy, but it was over an hour away and going home would be like admitting I couldn’t handle adulthood. If I couldn’t handle adulthood, how could I be a mother? Not to mention if I skipped town, I definitely wouldn’t be able to finish the semester. So I wasn’t going to classes as it was. But at least I could hopefully recover and make it in a day or two. Hopefully. Maybe. I had already called off so often from my work-study job at the gym that my boss had told me I was permanently off the schedule, but I couldn’t even bring myself to give a shit.

When Jessica and Rory texted, I lied and said I was fine, just tired. For some reason it seemed important to deal with this on my own. Like I made my barfy bed and now I had to lie in it.

Trying to find a more comfortable position, I groaned when the shift made me dry heave.

It wasn’t helping that Jonathon was overwhelming me with texts asking me questions I didn’t know the answers to. Like who my OB/GYN was. Or if I had health insurance. I thought I did, because I always had been on my parents’, but maybe that changed because of the pregnancy. I had no idea and I didn’t have the energy to figure it out. He also wanted to know if I was going to do genetics testing for disabilities. If I needed any money for medical expenses. If I had thought about where I was going to live.

All I could think about was breathing through my nose.

I wasn’t answering him. It took too much energy to type and when I tried to hold my phone in front of me, my eyes crossed and I felt like puking. Mostly I slept, swallowed bile, and watched old TV sitcoms on Netflix on my laptop. When he finally expressed concern that I either wasn’t okay or that I was upset with him, I did manage to answer that I wasn’t feeling well.

When the buzzer went off letting me know I had a visitor at the front door, I ignored it. My first thought was it was Nathan. But then I got a text from Jonathon as the buzzer rang again.

Downstairs. Worried about you. Can I come up?

Oh, crap. Could I look any shittier? No. No, I couldn’t.

I debated telling him to go away. But he texted again.

Brought you a smoothie. And anti-nausea medication that is safe for the baby.

Okay, I could get over the fact that I looked like ass if he could make even one one-hundredth of my symptoms go away.

Thx.

I struggled to a sitting position, then weaved to the DOOR button and hit it, holding it as long as I could before I felt dizzy, to make sure he was in. Then I unlocked my door and collapsed back onto my bed. This was worse than any hangover I’d ever had.

Jonathon knocked on the door a minute later and I tried to yell “come in,” but nothing but a pathetic whimper came out. He opened the door anyway and stepped inside.

“Kylie? Oh my God, are you okay?”

I tried to turn my head and I saw spots in front of my eyes. Suddenly Jonathon was down on his knees next to the bed, brushing my hair back off my forehead. His face looked concerned, his touch cool and gentle. “That feels good,” I murmured.

“What’s going on here? How long have you been in bed?”

“Three days. I think.”

“Have you eaten?”

Just the word made my stomach lurch and I heaved, slapping my hand over my mouth. “No.”

“Are you drinking water or anything?”

“A little.”

“How little?” He picked up the water bottle off the nightstand and shook it. “How often are you filling this up?”

“I don’t think I have refilled it.”

“When was the last time you went to the bathroom?”