The Trouble With Before Page 4

  “No, I lied! I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to say. I haven’t been with anyone except you since I’ve been here. I swear to God,” I tell him frantically, but I can see in his eyes he doesn’t believe me.

  “Are you kidding?” he asks with sharp irritation.

  “I promise, I just didn’t know what else to say. I was angry and confused,” I say desperately.

  “I don’t know how to read you! Why would you say something like that? What type of person makes up a lie like that?” he asks, completely appalled.

  I’m breathing so fast now that I can see my chest heaving, but he just looks confused.

  “Are you even really pregnant?” he asks.

  “I am; I promise I am. I-I-I’m sorry, Brett, I’m messed up. That’s all that I can say. I don’t know why I said what I did. I’m just scared. I can’t go through another pregnancy alone. Please don’t do this,” I plead with desperation seeping from every pore in my body.

  He only shakes his head. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a paper then hands it to me. I open it and see it’s a check for three thousand dollars.

  “This is for whatever you decide to do . . .”

  I look at him questioningly. “You want me to get an abortion?” I ask quietly.

  “That’s not really for me to decide. I don’t even know if I’m the father,” he says bitterly.

  “I told you,” I cry. My chin is trembling, my entire body is.

  “I need you to leave. When you have the baby, we can do a paternity test. If it’s mine, I’ll be there in every way I can,” he says quietly.

  I shake my head. “I’m not going anywhere. Brett, I’m telling you the truth. Please don’t do this!”

  “I need you to go. If you’ve ever really cared about me, you’ll leave!” he shouts, his face red and tears in his eyes.

  I take a deep breath and nod.

  He heads to the door but stops dead in his tracks. He looks back at me, confusion and frustration written all over him. “What do you mean another one?”

  My skin goes cold, and I drop my head in guilt and embarrassment.

  He laughs icily. “Wow, just wow.”

  “I’ll be out before you wake up tomorrow,” I promise.

  He only glares at me before turning and leaving the room. When he does, I crumble onto the floor.

  IT’S BEEN TWO days since Brett kicked me out of his life. Since I lost my friend/boyfriend, my apartment, and my job. It’s only fitting. How dare I presume that my life could be better, normal, without drama or conflict. I’ve obviously been cast as the villain in this screwed up story of my life, and I obviously don’t get a happy ending. To think I’m in the exact same situation I was almost ten years ago: pregnant, alone, and without a clue.

  I can’t believe that I was excited about getting pregnant. How stupid was I to not be on birth control? I look at the picture of Brett and me on my cell phone, and tears cloud my eyes again. I’ve called and left him over thirty messages.

  The first one was something like, “I know you’re probably worried, but don’t be, I’m fine. I’m at the hotel on Raine Street and not chopped into little pieces. I thought you’d want to know that . . .”

  Then another was sort of like, “I’m really not lying about that other guy. I don’t even remember what his name was, what I said his name was. Please just talk to me about this.”

  Then the last one was, “I never, ever thought you’d abandon me like this. I’m pregnant with your child, and you just throw me out? I can’t do this on my own . . . I’m just going to have the fucking abortion . . .”

  That one was left in the midst of tears. The messages in between were all me telling him how sorry I am, then how angry I am at him and asking how he could do this to me, and after hanging up thinking how could I do this to myself.

  I look at the bottle of Jack Daniels in my hand and think back to the days I’d down it and it would drown out all reason. In my mind, I’m on my third shot and trying to work up the courage to walk into oncoming traffic. But even in my daydreams, I’m afraid to kill myself. In real life, I’ve replaced Jack Daniels with cheap wine from the grocery store. I worked at a bar for three years after college and my alcohol tolerance skyrocketed, so it takes almost an entire bottle of wine for me to even get a buzz. But drinking is easier than facing the reality of my life. I look down at my belly and think of what’s resting there, growing inside me, and I get queasy.

  There’s a knock at the door, and my heart jumps. A really big part of me wishes that it’s Brett here to save me, to apologize and tell me he didn’t mean anything he said and that he knows I’d never cheat on him and that being in love is something we can work on because life isn’t a fairy tale, it’s just hunkering down and having a good understanding of one another. I understand Brett. I thought he understood me.

  But in reality, I know whoever is at the door isn’t him even though I left the address to the hotel I’m in in the voice messages I left. The last time we spoke, Brett looked at me in the way a man looks at you when he’s really done and there is absolutely nothing you can do or say to change his mind. The first man I ever loved looked at me that way, and I’ll never forget it.

  There are four hard knocks again, and they make my stomach nervous. Since I’ve been here, the housekeepers’ knocks have all been light and continuous, not sharp and final.

  My mind drifts back to the stalker/killer movie I fell asleep to last night. I pick up the bottle of wine and place it behind my back, if need be it will go up against an intruder’s skull. The alcohol seeping into my bloodstream makes me wonder if Brett would try to kill me. I could see that being a Lifetime movie plot, only Brett’s not married and I’m not a gold digger. I look around the room. It is a mess. Housekeeping could definitely spruce it up, but it’d be kind of weird to have them clean up while I’m in here. A chatty housekeeper would be better than a crazed Brett here to kill me though.

  I roll my eyes, deciding not to have any more wine today, and make my way off the bed. I open the door wide, expecting to see a woman with one of those big carts full of fresh bed linens and smelling like Pine Sol, so my breath is stolen by the person standing in front of me.

  “Aidan?” It comes out quietly and like a question, a question that doesn’t need an answer, because even in my tipsy and emotional state, I can’t mistake him.

  My eyes take in all of his six-foot-three frame. He’s always towered over me, at least since we were twelve. His sky-blue eyes narrow on mine as his hands, which were in his pockets, fold across his chest. With a warming in my stomach, a tingly sensation flows through me. His hair has grown out, it’s longer, longer than I’ve ever seen it, and it’s wild but in the way most guys spend hours and money on here, but he’s Aidan and I know he just decided on a whim one day to stop cutting it and it fell perfectly into place. If I’d seen him as a stranger on the street he’d probably cause my face to flush and my body temperature to rise but he’s not just a hot guy on the street; he’s my ex best friend. Still, the sight of someone familiar, someone who used to care about me, makes me want to hug him and thank God he’s here, but the hard scowl on his face keeps me from doing that. I’m frozen in place as I replay the last words he said to me when I called him after I arrived in California.

  Cold. Hearted. Bitch.

  I remind myself that he thinks I’m scum and couldn’t care less about me anymore, which makes me wonder why he’s here. How did he even find me? My defenses rise, and I cross my arms and summon all the anger I felt toward him when he basically told me to go to hell. I remind myself that he judged me and wrote me off over one mistake—okay, a really big mistake. But after he cut me off, I didn’t have anyone. I lost all of my support system in less than a week, and he knew that. How dare he stand here with a holier-than-thou, pissed-to-shit look on his face?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, anger radiating from my voice.

  He rolls his eyes and pushes past me, letting out a sound s
omewhere between annoyed and relieved. I watch him look around the room as if he never kicked me out of his life.

  “Hello! What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, confused, impatient, and starting to feel the wine a little more than usual.

  “You don’t look dead or like you’ve killed anyone.”

  The irritated sarcasm that used to really annoy me is apparent in his voice. He’s not even facing me.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, grabbing his arm to stop him from stalking around my hotel room.

  He snatches it from me and looks at me with a look in his eye that makes me almost shiver. If he were anyone else, I’d step back, intimidated, but I know Aidan too well for that. If I were a guy, it’d be totally different—he’s done two tours in Iraq and used to be a Golden Gloves boxing champ, so I know he could literally destroy me—but since I’m not, the only blows he’ll give me are his arrogant, judgmental stares. In all honesty, I’d prefer a punch.

  Once upon a time, we were kindred spirits, the two screw-ups, and it really sucks that I’ve screwed up so badly that even Aidan looks at me as if I’m shit. His demeanor goes from cold to concerned as his eyes sweep over me.

  “You look like shit.” His voice loses a few degrees of anger.

  I haven’t showered in about two days. My hair and face is an oily, sticky mess, and I probably smell like the burritos and wine I’ve binged on for the past few days.

  “So do you,” I retort, but it’s obviously a lie.

  He looks even better than the last time I saw him. He has a five o’clock shadow, and it gives him more of a rugged, mature look than he has bare-faced. His lips are pressed tightly together, revealing the two large dimples on each side of his face. Those dimples used to convince girls in high school he was the all-American boy, innocent and charming when he was anything but.

  He chuckles at me in disbelief. He’s always been arrogant, and I realize how disgusting my own mouth tastes.

  “Ms. Red thought you might have been in trouble,” he answers pointedly, and my heart drops.

  I vaguely remember calling her the night after Brett kicked me out. I’d been drinking the really good bottle of wine I’d swiped from Brett’s house. Even in my alcohol-induced state, I knew calling her was a bad idea, but now I realize how pathetic Aidan must think I am for calling her to throw myself a pity party.

  My cheeks are on fire. I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples. Shit, what did I tell her? I glue my eyes to my feet and try to think how to get myself out of this. “I-I didn’t mean to inconvenience anyone.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what you did. Why did you call and do that to her after everything . . . don’t you think she’s had enough bullshit from you?” His voice feels like shards of glass ripping at my skin.

  “It was really stupid, and I’m sorry,” I shout, and he shakes his head.

  “Aren’t you ever tired of being sorry?” he asks irately.

  I open my mouth to scream at him, to tell him that he’s a fucking asshole for coming all the way here just to bitch me out and I just can’t deal with him now, but instead of obscenities streaming from my mouth, a strangled shriek comes from it. I can no longer see Aidan because my eyes are blurry with tears. I want to wipe them away, but I don’t want to get a clear picture of him seeing me cry. Instead, I head to the bathroom and slam the door behind me.

  LISA IS THE only person who can make me feel like a complete jerk with just a glance. I’ve had plenty of women come in and out of my life: one-night stands that I admit I wasn’t exactly a gentleman with, girls I dated who would scream at me and tell me I was a complete asshole, and even Hillary says I’m the biggest jerk she’s ever met, which I highly doubt since she practically held me hostage in the ring section of the jewelry store. But Lisa always had a knack for knowing exactly what to say or do to get to me. It could come from years and years of us being friends or . . . what’s that word for girls who are friends but kind of hate each other? Shit, frenemies. That’s probably a better word for us. We were each other’s sparring partners. I think it came down to us being too much alike. My grams used to say iron sharpens iron, and we were cut from the same cloth.

  Lisa was the one to call me on my shit, and I’d call her on hers. We’d both throw insults at each other, but it was mostly in good fun. Or boredom. Mostly boredom and annoyance. When we got really mad at each other—usually over stupid things—we both knew what to say to dent the other’s feelings. But if it came down to it, we’d have each other’s back. I’ve never questioned if she’d be there if I really needed her, and when she revealed one of her deepest, darkest secrets, something that she knew would tear my other best friend’s world apart, she knew that as much as we fought, I’d help her figure it out. If there was any way for us to get through what she did, I’d try to help us all pull through it.

  When the bomb did explode, I was there for her. Even though I couldn’t understand how she could sleep with her best friend’s dad, I stuck by her, and when she revealed she had been pregnant and had a secret child with him, I knew our three musketeer act of her, Chris, and me would be over and she’d need me. Just because she didn’t have anyone else really.

  Chris had grown up in the perfect home with a great mom and dad and lots of friends. Teachers loved him, guys wanted to be his friend, and girls wanted to be his girlfriend.

  For Lisa and me, it was different. Lisa had no clue where her dad was, her mother might as well have been invisible, and her grandparents had been cut off from her. My mom’s mind had left before she did, my dad had checked out after his stint in the marines, and his best friend was Jim Beam. My grandmother stepped in as much as she could, so if it wasn’t for her, I don’t know where I’d be . . . but Lisa didn’t even have that one person to depend on. So in a way, we were kindred spirits. Even though I was pissed at her for what she had done, I knew without a doubt if the shoe was on the other foot, she’d be there for me. I wouldn’t have left her side, no matter how mad Chris was, but then she told me that she was ditching her kid and moving to California to find herself.

  After that, I couldn’t do it anymore.

  I was done.

  I finally realized how fucking selfish she was and probably always would be, because who does that? Who just drops off a kid on a dad they’ve never known? No decent person could abandon their kid like that. I told myself that the Lisa I had known died that day.

  Even on the plane ride here after deciding to come, I told myself I’d just see if she was alive and not in danger or anything and I’d leave right after. I’d see if California girls were really better than girls everywhere else.

  When I saw her, all my anger and bitterness swelled up, circling around like a tornado . . . until I noticed how puffy her eyes were, how the light in them had dimmed. I knew that something wasn’t right, and my anger blew out like a windstorm was in the room with us. Lisa has been a lot of things and gone through a lot of crap, but she’s never looked this terrible. Whatever happened to put her in a funk like this had to be bad.

  That’s why I’ve been sitting here, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. It’s been about an hour, because a whole episode of Law and Order has come and gone. I can’t believe she started crying. That really caught me off guard. Lisa’s never cried over anything I’ve said to her. When I told her that she was a selfish bitch and to pretty much erase me from her life, she shot back that she didn’t need me in her life and I was a self-righteous dick. I half-expect her to scream from behind the door at me to get the hell out and that she doesn’t need any of our pity and maybe even throw a bucket of water at me . . . well, that’s more Hillary’s style than Lisa’s. But I don’t expect to hear whimpering when I put my ear to the door.

  Ms. Red’s words play in my head. She’s hurting.

  “What’d you get yourself into now, Leese?” I mutter. I take the phone out of my pocket and see a text from Chris’s wife Lauren, the other half of Ms. Red’s save-Lisa coalition.


  How are things going? Find her?

  I text back, “Really fucking bad . . .” but I erase it. Women make the Iraqi desert look like a day at Chuck E. Cheese.

  Yeah. I’m handling it.

  I approach the door again. This time I hear water running. I’m assuming she’s in the shower or running a bath or something. Thank God, because she looked like hell.

  The room looks like a disaster zone. She has three huge open suitcases, and it looks as though everything in them has been tossed around the room. A bunch of food wrappers overflow the garbage can. I rummage through the can and see three empty wine bottles. Lisa’s never been a wine-drinking kind of girl. I spot a big unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. It’s really weird that she’d be drinking wine when she has a bottle of perfectly good alcohol available, especially if she’s in such a drinking mood.

  My phone vibrates again. It’s another text from Lauren.

  It may help to be a good listener more than a bad talker.

  I get another text that says.

  Well said

  Then I realize that Lauren, Ms. Red, and I are in a group chat.

  Not my idea of a threesome.

  I let out a deep breath before cleaning up the room. I was a complete slob until I joined the army—that knocks the sloppiness right out of you. In less than a half an hour, I’ve folded her clothes and put them into her suitcases. I can’t help noticing all the sexy little thongs and boy shorts she has. Then I remember how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. Three weeks is a record for me since I’ve been back home, and going through all this sexy girly stuff isn’t helping. I end up throwing the rest of her things in the last suitcase.

  I make her bed and get rid of all the trash, and by the time I’m done, I hear the water turn off in her bathroom. The door opens almost slowly. I see her peep around it before she closes it again.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Come on, Leese, I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.”

  The door swings open and she emerges, the hot air pouring from the bathroom. She has a towel wrapped around her and quickly walks to her suitcase. She starts to riffle through it.