Shit, Damn, Muthafucka

One month ago when I woke up at Don’s I promptly ran to the bathroom—ok so I didn’t know where it was and I nearly puked on the fluffy rug. Anyway I vomited. Today I was in a clinic with a bitch in starched jacket asking me if I knew who the father was. Jesus H. Christ. I thought of ramming a blade into my belly to cut it out, eating poison or doing as many drugs as I could find. Shit, with my luck I would end up still pregnant and 7 months later taking care of damn retard.

“Are you going to keep it?”

When I didn’t answer right away she woman waved a clipboard in front of my face. I blinked several times.

“Fuck off.” I stood up so fast the flimsy chair flipped over.

I pushed past the Jesus freaks in the lobby telling the young girls, that they could help and walked out. I wasn’t a scared fucking kid anymore, I was pushing thirty and about to go insane. I thought I had the God damn flu, I hurled for two weeks straight it didn’t matter if it was morning or night, besides I had lost nearly ten pounds. When the puking finally stopped I got back to a normal work schedule and didn’t give it a second thought. I hung out with Don on and off, and finally started to relax—now this shit.

There was a comfortable warmth in the city today, while locals fanned themselves and cranked up their cars air conditioning, I let the sun hit my face as I walked.

What the hell was I going to do?

I found myself on a bus to North Beach, I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. Outside of Don’s door I watched as a police cruiser drifted by, all eyes on me. I knocked, and let several minutes pass. I rang the doorbell and when he didn’t open the door I laid my cheek against it. When Don opened it I nearly fell in. He caught me, happily surprised and kissed me gently before returning to buttoning up his shirt.

There were so many things I could have said.

“I need a week off.”

“The stomach thing is back.”

Something, anything but instead I blurted out. “I’m pregnant, it’s not yours.”

He momentarily looked like I slapped him, then recovered.

“James?”

I nodded before wandering into the family room and collapsing on the sofa. Don followed me.

“What are you going to do about it?”

I shook my head, I sure as hell didn’t know and I sure as hell didn’t expect to hear what Don said next.

“Move in with me.”

I froze, the 72 inch flat screen HDTV in front of me reflected my blurry image. For the first time in my life I felt like I needed my mom.

Don closed the short distance to the couch and sat down next to me. I folded into him and sobbed.

Two months later I found myself still sitting on his couch, full of angst with a growing belly and a particular disdain for life. He came home every night, and kissed me and told me it was going to be ok. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How the fuck did I get here? How the fuck did I let this sweet man become a part of my fucked up life?

I looked at his hopeful brown eyes and I wanted to love him but I was so fucked up that I couldn’t. I was going to fuck this up, fuck the kid up and everything else in between.

The cellar was only half my problem, today I had stared at the wet bar for nearly an hour. The fucking Grey Goose bottle was damn near talking to me.

When I heard the front door shut, I pretended to sleep. I had given in to the Goose and knocked back two shots, I was so afraid that he would find out.

“Savannah, lets go to bed” He pulled me up from the couch.

It was 3:30 AM when Don helped me into bed and went into the bathroom, it finally dawned on me that I had waited up for him. Maybe some small part of me was coming alive, maybe I should leave San Francisco.