The Baddest Bad Boy

“Mikayla,” I say sharply. “Get up.”

There’s no sound. It’s absolutely silent. Weird. Unwilling to wait, I throw open the door and to my surprise, the bedroom is empty. There’s no sign of that ridiculous Louis Vuitton luggage. In fact, there’s no sign of Mikayla at all except for a note on the rumpled bed. I pick it up, reading it in a stupor. All it says is, “Later gator! I’m off. Bye, Troy-boy.”

I’m stunned. Where did she go? Who does she know in the United States?

But at least one of my problems has evaporated, and not a moment too soon. Now, I need to fix the other one and it’s not going to be easy because I’m not a patient man. I’m used to taking what I want, and when it comes to women, I take with impunity.

But Cammie’s different. If staying put is what’s required, then I have to keep myself in check. I need to wait for her to come to me because no matter what, I’m not willing to risk losing her again.

10

Cammie

* * *

I throw my phone next to me on the couch and bury my head in my hands.

How can this be happening?

Troy betrayed me. He never told me about Mikayla. If he had, I might have understood, sort of. But maybe not because he’s literally engaged to another woman, even if he swears it was just part of a drunken hook-up. But the fact that he kept it a secret makes things even worse. I feel nauseated and sick to my stomach. At that moment, my hand falls protectively on my tummy and I rub it gently.

After all, there’s something else that makes this even worse, but I’ve been waiting to tell Troy because it could complicate everything. In a way, I suppose I’m just as bad as Troy because if anything, my secret is far weightier than his: I’m pregnant. Troy is going to be a daddy.

Tears spill from my eyes in a mix of joy, happiness, and deep, bone-wrenching sorrow. Troy and I are so careful, and we use protection every time we sleep together. Sometimes, though, things get too hot too fast and we skip the condoms. Plus, I’m not on birth control because it wreaks havoc with my moods. As a result, there were a few times when Troy finished in me bare.

I thought it would be fine. I loved it, in fact, because it felt like his semen was where it was meant to be. I loved that sticky, gooey feeling afterwards, and even watching it drip down my thighs.

Yet, here I am. The positive test came back last week from the doctor, and at first, I couldn’t believe the news.

“What?” I gasped.

The nurse merely clucked. “Congratulations, Mama.”

But now, I’m on my own with a cheating ex who swears he’s not engaged. Not really, anyways.

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask aloud to no one, burying my face in my hands again. I want to call Caitlin, but that’s not an option because she tells her husband everything, and Travis is Troy’s brother. The news would be all over the grapevine within five seconds. There’s my friend Marcy, but honestly, Marcy is so busy trying to get her boyfriend to propose that I doubt she could even listen to me for one sentence before turning back to her own business.

I sigh and glance around the apartment, ruefully taking in the yellowing walls and water stain on the kitchen ceiling. I can’t live here and raise a baby because it’s way too small and because this place is full of baby hazards. He or she would knock their head or fall out a window, given how desperately it needs repairs. I might need to break my lease and find a place with a second bedroom, which makes me gulp because I certainly can’t afford it on my graphic designer’s salary. So what do I do?

Unable to think of solutions, I throw myself down on the couch and cry, wallowing in my misery. Everything else will just have to wait.

My neck aches when I wake up. Where the hell am I?

I blink a few times in the darkness, slowly realizing that I’m on the couch in my apartment. Why am I asleep here when I have a perfectly good bed in the other room?

Then it all comes back to me. My eyes feel sticky and my mouth dry. I cried myself to sleep last night, and now I have a headache to boot.

Suddenly nausea strikes because a horrible thought occurs: did Troy have sex with Mikayla last night? Have they been banging like rabbits ever since I made my dramatic exit?

I can’t even think about it.

Instead, I get up from the couch and stumble into the shower, feeling grimy, hot and sweaty all at once. The scalding water is enough to strip off my skin, but I stand beneath the spray gratefully. I need to clean this horrible event off me, inside and out.