Page 182 of Happy Hour

Emma giggled. “That’s fun.”

“Emma!” I snapped. “Shut up.”

“Hey Sway,” she exclaimed louder than I felt necessary pointing once again to my crankcase. “They even use protection here.”

Christ almighty, they could hear her in New York.

“Get the fuck out of here Emma, right now!” I yelled abruptly, shocking Dr. Sears.

Emma of course did not leave—instead, she came back up towards my head and rubbed my scalp.

“Calm down, you’re emotional.” She kissed my forehead. “It’s to be expected my love.”

“Emma.” I warned.

“Yes?”

“Stop touching me.”

The last thing I wanted right now was Emma touching me when there was a foot long wand align bore my crankcase.

“Okay,” Dr. Sears interrupted our silly fight. “That right there,” He pointed to a flickering bubble on the screen. “that is your baby. There’s the heartbeat. You are roughly eight weeks, three days.”

I was speechless. Now if only that same speechlessness would plague Emma.

“Oh my goodness?” she was rubbing my head again. “When’s her due date?”

“March seventh.” Dr. Sears answered and pushed a button on the screen.

The said baby was jumping all over the place, flailing around. The tiny flickering on the screen confirmed to me that there was in fact life inside of me. A life created by crazy-irrational-break-your-heart-logic from my dirty car-talking heathen.

Do they have support groups for crazy irrational pigizzles who get knocked up by their dirty heathen out of wedlock?

If they did, I’d be attending meetings after this. Of all the shenanigans I could get into, I get knocked up, at one of the worst times.

The door shut behind Dr. Sears and Emma brought me out of my self-pity trance when she snapped a picture with her phone. I ripped her phone out of her hand. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Showing mom, she wants to see her grandbaby.”

“YOU TOLD HER?”

“Well yeah—but I didn’t tell anyone else.” She looked at me as though there was absolutely nothing wrong with this.

“Fuck Emma.” I punched her shoulder after removing my legs from confinement. “Did you ever think that maybe I should tell the father first?”

“You can tell him later,” she waived her arm around. “Mom isn’t going to say anything. Besides, he’s racing right now.”

“What do you mean racing?”

It’s Wednesday, why would he be racing?

“He’s racing at Lernerville with Justin and Tyler. It’s a charity event.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I felt sad that I didn’t know, or maybe he’d said something and I wasn’t paying attention, which was possible. I definitely had my mind elsewhere these days.

Emma shrugged. “It was last minute, I guess.”

Later that night, after kicking Emma into the spare bedroom because she wouldn’t keep her goddamn hands off my stomach, I called Jameson.

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