Tossing my phone down on the counter, I bury my face in my hands. That lawyer called again while I was puking my guts up, and the thought makes my stomach roll after it was just settling down. My eyes slide to the bathroom door, and I debate if this is the real deal. Itâs hard to believe there could be anything left to throw up.
Nausea can be bad during the first trimester, but I just made it into the second. Itâs supposed to be getting better or leveling out. Itâs not, and that seems fitting for how my life is going.
Bringing a hand to my stomach, I slide it over my shirt, mentally willing the churning to settle down. Iâm sure the baby isnât any happier with this turn of events. Iâve barely managed to keep any food down during the last two months. And Iâm pretty sure the anxiety and stress arenât helping anything.
All of this would be exponentially easier to handle with a partner at my side, but Iâve already accepted that Clark doesnât want any part of fatherhood. Thinking about my ex makes me feel some ridiculous combination of hurt and furious, so I do my best not to let myself focus on him.
Clark broke up with me out of the blue. I didnât see it coming at all, which makes the emotions burn even worse, especially since heâs technically half responsible for the baby Iâm busy baking. Iâve made every attempt possible to let him know Iâm pregnant, but after several weeks of calling and textingâ¦it finally dawned on me.
He doesnât care.
Or if he does, heâs got a unique way of showing it.
Thatâs the whole reason Iâve been dodging Mr. Smith.
Clark having a lawyer reach out to me, rather than doing it himself, makes me hella uncomfortable, and I donât think Iâm overreacting by avoiding the man until I know what he wants. He could be about to serve me with papers saying Clark wants to sue for custody or maybe that he wants to sign his rights away.
We were both in that bed when the baby was created, but since my birth control failed, it all falls on me. I had no idea that the antibiotics they gave me after having my wisdom teeth removed could interfere with the efficacy of my birth control. If I had, I would have been a hell of a lot more vigilant.
I bend in half, and my forehead rolls around the cool countertop of my kitchen island.
Itâs emotionally complicated.
For weeks I wanted to hear something, anything, from Clark, but once the lawyer started calling, I realized how much better the silence had been.
A loud, echoing knock fills the air, and I twist toward my front door.
Iâm not expecting anyone.
As a single female omega, safety is always a concern, but I push myself off my barstool and creep across the tile in my socks. My hands come to rest on the door as I peek out the peephole, but my weight makes the door jostle ever so slightly.
âMiss Baxter?â a man in a suit calls through the closed door. âChelsea Baxter? Please, itâs urgent that I speak with you.â
I exhale heavily and move to open the door but leave the chain locked. The door only opens two or three inches, and I eye the man suspiciously. âWho are you?â
âMy name is Leon Smith. I represent the late Clark Raynor. Iâve been attempting to reach you for over a week.â He twists his hand sideways through the opening in the door, holding out a card.
It takes several seconds of slow blinking at his card for his words to catch up in my mind.
âD-Did you just say Clark is dead?â I ask, ripping the card from his fingers.
âYou didnât hear the newsâ¦â Mr. Smith curses under his breath, bringing a hand up to swipe over his face. âIâm sorry. I assumed youâd been notified.â
Notified by who? I want to scoff, but no words come out as my shoulder falls against the wall next to my front door.
The avalanche of horrible things Iâve said and thought come rushing back all at once. My feelings were hurt, and I thought Clark was blowing me off because he didnât want to deal with the hassle of facing me.
âWhat happened?â I ask in a daze.
âMr. Raynor had a brain tumor, but he was receiving treatment. It was an aneurysm.â Mr. Smith shoves a tissue through the two-inch gap under the chain lock. âHe didnât suffer. It was very quick. May I come in?â
My head shakes as tears burn my eyes.
Iâm still so confused.
Why wouldnât he tell me that he was sick?
I spent the last few months hating him. Iâve thought and said some pretty awful things that Iâll never be able to take back.
My hand flies to my mouth, and I dart across the room, aiming for the trash can in the kitchen.
Iâm going to be sick.