Songbird (12 page)

“The baby’s mine.”

A deathly silence hangs in the air. Finally, Mom reaches out her hand. Out of complete desperation, I take it and let her pull me to the couch.

“Devin, did you really tell her you wanted nothing to do with your child?”

“Not in those exact words, no, but . . .”

My mother holds my hand while I spill my guts. I leave out the more graphic details of the wedding weekend, but when I’m finished, my mom knows everything I know about Callie Franklin. She listens intently and doesn’t interrupt . . . that is, until I tell her I haven’t been able to get Callie out of my mind.

“You have feelings for her,” she says softly. I detect a hint of amazement in her voice. “I could tell at the benefit that you were completely smitten.”

“It doesn’t matter if I do. I’ve completely screwed it up.”

“Then you’re just going to have to fix it.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You apologize, for starters,” she says. “You tell her you’re an idiot—”

“Wow, don’t hold anything back there, Mom.”

“Well, you acted like an idiot.”

I nod. “I did. You’re right.”

“Tell her you
are
going to be a father to this child and that she can rely on you for anything for the rest of your lives.”

I chuckle nervously. “The rest of our lives?”

Mom searches my face. “You don’t understand, do you? You may not end up romantically committed to this woman, but you have created a child with her. Like it or not, the two of you are now connected forever. She’s scared, Devin. She needs to know she can depend on you.”

I anxiously rub the back of my neck. “I
so
didn’t sign up for this.”

“And she did?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Mom sighs. “I know you’re scared, and I don’t mean to dismiss that, but think about how frightened you are and then multiply it by a thousand.
That’s
how scared Callie is right now. All this anxiety isn’t good for her or the baby.”

“She hates me.”

“That’s why you’re going to do whatever it takes to fix this. Right now.”

Without letting go of my hand, my mom leads me out the door.

“Oh, and Devin?”

I lock the door behind us. “Yeah?”

“She’ll probably tell you to go away.”

“Oh, I’m prepared for that.”

“What will you do?”

I look down into my mother’s proud, trusting eyes. My mom knows me better than anyone, and she knows that, despite my faults, I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.

“I’ll beg to stay.”

I check my watch.
How can she not be home?

I keep knocking and pray her neighbors won’t call the cops on me. I’ve been standing at her door for thirty minutes.
Maybe she’s home and just doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe she’s at work. Maybe she’s sick and can’t answer the door. Maybe
 . . .

With a groan, I slide down her door and sit on my ass.

Where is she?

The elevator dings, and Callie walks out into the hallway. In her arm is a bag of groceries. When she sees me standing by the door, she stops in her tracks and drops the bag.

“Sorry.” I rush toward her and kneel to the ground. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She remains silent as I pick up her ice cream, crackers, and something that looks suspiciously like spinach. After putting everything back in the bag, I offer to carry it inside for her.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk, Callie.”

“You’ve said enough.”

“No. I—”

But she doesn’t give me the chance to finish. She reaches for her bag and snatches it out my hand. Without another word, she pulls her keys out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

“Callie, please talk to me.”

She steps inside her apartment and promptly kicks the door closed right in front of my face.

“C
allie! Open the door!”

I ignore his relentless knocking and put away my groceries.
How long has he been here? Have my neighbors seen him? Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll call the police.

After half an hour, I grab my phone and put my earbuds in. Singing along, I start opening ingredients to make my grandma’s chicken noodle soup, hoping it’ll settle my queasy stomach. While it simmers, I throw in a load of laundry. I’ve just closed the door on the washing machine when I get the first text.

I’m not leaving.

Great. Totally forgot that I gave him my number.

I pull out my earbuds and toss my phone onto the sofa. Thankfully, he finally stops knocking, but I hear a distinct thump, which leads me to believe his legs have finally given out and he’s now propped against my door.

I ignore the sound and grab a banana freezer pop before collapsing on the couch.

My phone chimes again. I wait a whole ten minutes before glancing at it.

I know I’m an ass. I’m sorry.

I gaze at the screen. Sorry for what? For being an arrogant jerk? For knocking me up? For accusing me of being a tramp? For dismissing me—and our baby—so easily? For pounding on my door for God only knows how long?

My fingers ghost along the screen, eager to ask what he’s apologizing for.

You aren’t talking to him. Remember?

I wish I could just turn it off, but I’m too afraid I’ll miss a call from work.

Almost instantly, there’s another text.

Please talk to me.

I smirk. Now he’s begging.

Good.

By ten o’clock the text messages stop, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Grateful that he’s given up and gone home, I quickly clean up the kitchen and load the dishwasher before grabbing my baby book and going to bed. I climb under the blanket, looking forward to the chapter on relaxation techniques for a stress-free pregnancy.

Before I can even open the book, I’m fast asleep.

I wake up the next day feeling relaxed, well rested, and starved.

Excited that I’m not hugging my toilet this morning, I rush to the kitchen in hopes of having a real breakfast for a change. I glance in the fridge, and my stomach growls when I spy a fresh package of turkey bacon.

Yes!

Usually, I prefer my eggs sunny-side up, but the baby book warned about eating raw yolk, so I scramble them instead. I add a couple slices of toast and then sit down to enjoy my first decent breakfast in weeks. A moan actually escapes my lips when I take the first bite.

Note to self: Baby likes scrambled eggs.

After breakfast, I get ready for work. I’m feeling so good I actually dress up a little today, choosing a knee-length skirt to wear with my flats. As I check my reflection in the mirror, I’m amazed how
happy
I look . . . all because I didn’t throw up this morning.

It’s the little things in life.

Confident that it’s going to be a great day, I grab my bag and phone and head out. When I open the door, a man’s body—and his head—fall at my feet. I find myself staring down into Devin McAllister’s brown eyes.

So much for my great day.

“Good morning, Songbird.”

“What the hell are you doing here so early?”

He smirks and climbs to his feet. “You’re actually acknowledging my presence this morning?”

Shit.
I snap my mouth shut.

“And, for your information,” he continues, leaning close as I lock my door. “I never left. I told you I wasn’t leaving.”

He slept out here?

“You’re a jerk.”

“No argument here. Please just talk to me.”

I sigh deeply and turn to face him. He’s right
there
, staring at me with those brown eyes that make me lose my mind.

“I’m gonna be late for work.”

“Meet me for lunch. Dinner. Whatever you want.”

Devin McAllister is the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. How dare he camp out at my front door all night long and make me feel sorry for his arrogant ass.

“Why are you here, Devin? You made it very clear how you feel.”

He leans closer. “That’s not how I feel. I’m here because this is where I should be. You have to let me apologize.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”