Page 33 of Chasing The Goal
I stayed busy at the stove, cleaning up the mess I had made making the omlette, mostly to give her space. Partly so I didn’t saysomething dumb.
And that’s when the math started.
I’d seen her with Jackson, what? Four weeks ago? Maybe Five? And they hadn’t exactly looked cozy. Hell, she barely introduced him, like she was embarrassed.
But embarrassed enough to hide a pregnancy? My face must have given me away, while I was pouring more hot water into her mug. After a moment, she said, “I told Jackson.”
I froze, watching her carefully.
She didn’t look up, just kept eating.
“Over the phone. I didn’t even have the guts to do it in person. Just blurted it out after morning meetings. Oh my gosh it was so pathetic”
“And?”
She finally looked at me, brown eyes blank. “He pretty much ghosted me. We hung up with plans to talk later on that same night and he never called back. I tried to text him but our little blue bubbles went green…”
Something hot and dark twisted in my gut. I clenched my jaw and forced a slow exhale through my nose. That mother fucker.
“I’m sorry,” I said completely controling the anger raging through my veins.
“Yeah,” she replied softly, setting down the fork. “Me too. For a minute, a stupid part of me thought it could be real. White picket fence and everything. I think I'm stillgoing to keep the baby. It may be my only chance,” a small sob escaped her delicate lips.
I crossed my arms, she didn't elaborate on it being her only chance, and I didn't push. But what I couldn't contain was my distaste for the mother fucker.
“He’s a piece of shit.”
That brought out her smile again, humorless this time. “Tell me how you really feel.”
I shrugged. “I never liked him. Smug, surface-level jerk who thought a watch collection made him interesting. You could do better”
Mallory snorted, rubbing her temple. “I wasn’t even that into him. Just… lonely. He seemed nice at first.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I kind of feel like I do.”
“No,” I said gently. “You don’t.”
A stretch of quiet passed between us. The kind of quiet where you feel every second. Not awkward. Just... heavy.
I reached across the counter and grabbed her phone.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Adding my number. I’ll write ‘Prescott the Omelette King’ so you remember.”
Her lips curved. “So humble.”
I held it out to her. “Seriously, if you need anything. I’m just two floors up.”
She took it, nodding. “Thanks, Jaymie.”
A beat passed.
Then another. I should’ve left. I’d done what I came to do—make sure she was okay, get food in her system, add my name to her emergency contacts.
But I didn’t want to go.
