Sugar on the Edge (Last Call #3)(74)

“How many times have I told you to stop stocking the heavy items, Savannah?” I hear from behind me. Lifting my head over my shoulder, I see Brody standing in the supply room doorway, glaring at me. He strides over, grabs the case of canned dog food I was lifting onto a shelf from my hands, and easily hefts it up.

“I’m not an invalid,” I grumble. “So stop treating me like one.”

“No… you’re pregnant and you were spotting, so quit being so obstinate.”

Turning to the cart laden with supplies, I start pulling off jars of vitamin supplements, stacking them methodically on the shelves. “I was spotting a month ago. The doctor said the baby was fine.”

“If you want to keep your job, then do as you’re told,” Brody says, and his tone of voice doesn’t leave room for argument.

Sighing, I keep stacking the smaller supplies while Brody handles the heavier items. We work silently side by side, and I try not to be resentful of his overprotectiveness.

Can’t help it though. I am resentful. Resentful that Brody is doing the job that Gavin should be doing. Don’t get me wrong; I’m very grateful for Brody and Alyssa. They talked me into accepting a full-time job at The Haven, a proposition I had turned down from them over and over again in the past. But even I know beggars can’t be choosers. With a baby on the way, I had no better prospects. Eric certainly wasn’t going to hire me back, and the two ladies I cleaned houses for had already hired replacements they were happy with. Unless I wanted to go home with my tail between my legs and a bun in the oven, I really had no choice but to accept their kindness.

Their charity.

Fuck, that burns me up. That I’m stuck in this position, having to prey upon the benevolence of my friends.

Fuck Gavin for leaving me, without a word… without a backward glance.

Like an idiot, I waited. I waited in his kitchen for an hour for him to come back. Then an hour turned into two, which turned into three. At the four-hour mark, I started calling him, but I got his voice mail every single time. I went to bed that night, slept fitfully, and was back up at dawn to wait for him in his kitchen.

I waited at his house for three f*cking days. Like an idiot. Then I moved my stuff back home and cried for two more days. The day after that, I went to the doctor’s and had a blood test, which confirmed I was pregnant, and I cried again. Both a mixture of happy and sad tears.

I hadn’t wanted to get pregnant. One day… sure. But not until I was older. Not until I had accomplished some of my other dreams. But the fact was… I was pregnant and all of a sudden, I had a little life growing inside of me that I couldn’t wait to meet one day. I let the tears come again, pretending to segregate a portion of them for the joy that I would have a baby one day soon, and sadness that the man I thought I loved had abandoned me.

After that day, I refused to cry again.

I refused to call Gavin again.

However, I did go to the post office to pick up Gavin’s mail the following week, only to find the box empty. I expected it to be packed full, and when I asked the nice lady behind the counter where it all was, she informed me that a change of address form had been submitted and the mail was being forwarded to an address in England.

Tears pricked at my eyes when she told me that, but I refused to let them fall. I swallowed hard… swallowing my heart, my tears, and my pride. I pushed it all down and refused to let it back up again.

In the parking lot, I sat in my car and deleted Gavin’s contact information from my iPhone. Within a week, I had forgotten his phone number and now, officially, had no way to get in contact with him even if I wanted.

Weeks.

My life is now measured in weeks.

When I was five weeks pregnant, Gavin left me, and I entered the denial phase. There was no way he could have left me for good. He would be back.

At six weeks, I turned in his post office key and entered the anger phase.

At seven weeks, I succumbed to morning sickness, except it happened every afternoon, not just in the morning. I accepted Brody and Alyssa’s offer to work at The Haven, and the smell of dog poop increased my nausea. I was usually able to make it into the bathroom before I puked. I entered the bargaining phase, and pleaded with God every night to let Gavin see reason and come back to me… preferably on groveling knees.

At eight weeks pregnant, I started spotting and had a mild panic attack. The doctor checked me out and a vaginal ultrasound sent me into a fit of maniacal laughter filled with relief when I was able to hear the baby’s heartbeat. All was fine I was assured, but I was thoroughly immersed in the depression phase, swallowing my tears and hiding my melancholy from my friends. No one could convince me that all was fine.

At twelve weeks, in a fit of morbid and morose thoughts, and in a need to apparently torture myself, I drove by Gavin’s house to check on it. I was slapped in the face by a large For Sale sign planted in the front yard. It wasn’t Casey’s realty firm, so I had no guilt whatsoever when I put my car in drive and gently drove it into the sign, stepping on the gas with more and more pressure until the thick, wooden post cracked and the sign fell over. Some might call that another round of the anger phase, but I called it acceptance.

I was done.

And now… at seventeen weeks today, I spent the morning in the doctor’s office having an ultrasound and was shocked to learn that they could tell the baby’s gender. I learned that I’m going to have a baby girl. I smiled so big, so wide… yes, that was called the joyful phase.