I take the day off and pick up E this morning at 9 am. She looks like she hadn't slept all night. We drive in relative silence compared to how we usually communicate: like two ADHD kids trying to speak in iambic pentameter pig latin, full of profound statements that no one else would understand as we shift topics with every other sentence.
We get to the clinic and the TV's blaring crappy Richard Scary cartoons. I turn it down, and the receptionist gives me a glare.
E goes back, has blood taken, and we head down the street for breakfast tacos. Because in Texas, there are breakfast taco places everywhere, including conveniently located next to this particular Planned Parenthood.
I try to joke around, she makes light of certain conversational topics, but there's this scared, gray look in her eyes. I want to shake her. You are the dumb ass here. You didn't use protection. You are 30 years old. Worse things have happened. This isn't a bad thing; you like the guy, he likes you, maybe give him a chance to prove that he'll be there for you.
We go back to the clinic and she says I should wait in the car while she goes in for the results. I'm nervous and slightly nauseated from the tacos. I get out of the car just in time and barf behind the dumpster.
She is pregnant.
I barf again.
I drop her off at her ex's house, where she has to have the most difficult discussion of her 30 years.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment