Page 5 of Wreckage of Us
“I think he’s watching Becca,” Puck informs me in a shaky voice as he tries to anticipate how I’m going to react.
“Well, that’s not fuckin’ good,” I cross my arms and lean back against the wall, jaw so tight, my head is going to explode, but I don’t show it.
“That’s not all,” Puck continues pacing back and forth to the point where I’m ready to slap him upside the head. He also looks slightly green now.
“Just say it already, fucker,” I growl at him. Why is he dragging this shit?
“I was at the hospital today,” he starts.
“Why?”
“That’s not important,” he waves me off. “Becca was outside with Emily…”
Ah, and now I know why he was there.
“And Becca was with this guy, the doctor.”
“Dr. Douche,” I grind out.
“Yeah, about that,” Puck finally stops pacing.
“What about it?”
“It seems as if they’re having a baby…”
2
Becca
The poundingin my head just won’t let up. I took a Tylenol for it when I got home, then lied down for a while, in the dark, like a creep. Now I’m up, and the pain is still in the back of my head and in between my eyes, almost making me sick to my stomach.
After the disastrous encounter with Emily and Puck at the hospital, I told Oliver that I’d give him a call later, then took off.
It is later now, but I don’t feel like talking to anyone.
The house feels eerily quiet. And while I’m grateful for it, I am also spooked by it. I don’t want to be alone. Colton won’t be home for another few days. I miss him like crazy.
How am I going to survive living in this house without my little brother? Maybe I should sell and follow him to Michigan. I could get a job at a hospital there. Take the baby to a good daycare… We could continue living together…
God, I’m turning into a helicopter mom. And I’m not even his mom. I can only imagine how I’ll be with my actual kid.
The realization makes me want to laugh. And cry. And scream into a pillow.
I am just about to do that when my phone dings with a message. With a heavy groan, I turn on my side to grab the phone from the nightstand, shocked to realize the time when I look at the screen.
“What the hell,” I mumble to myself when I see I have an Insta message. It’s coming from a random user I don’t recognize, making me nervous all of a sudden. I somehow managed to forget about the creepy message I got last week. I made sure to block that person.
With shaky fingers, I unlock my phone and tap on the app. I then go to the message notifications, sighing in frustration when the internet seems to be slowing down, and it takes a minute for the page to open.
I told you to stay the fuck away from him, did I not? Do you really want to see what happens when I get angry?
My hands start shaking, and I almost drop the phone on my face from my position on my back. Who in the world is this messaging me? I am trying to remember what they say to do in a situation like this.
Do not engage.
I’m pretty sure that’s correct, so, with clammy fingers, I block the sender. I don’t even care about my Instagram account that much. I am going to close it altogether if this becomes a problem.
God, why me? I groan and roll out of bed. Something crinkles under my butt, and when I stick my hand underneath, I realize it is my ultrasound picture. It’s upside down, so I turn it around until I am looking at it correctly.
