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“Okay.”
Monica spent most of the morning and afternoon making trips from her apartment back to mine. My loft was small as it was, and having her few things and the baby’s things made it feel even smaller. Especially when I felt as big as a house. I knew we would soon outgrow this loft, but for now we would make it work.
I wasn’t much help with the heavy lifting, but I did help her set up a little work station right next to my small desk. A place where she could write alongside me. I felt grateful that I had the freelance job she got me because I knew I would go stir-crazy without having anything to do.
Plus, we needed the money.
I had been avoiding looking at my finances since I had left my old job. My final paycheck had already hit my bank account, and now I relied on the small paychecks from freelancing that weren’t nearly as big or stable.
After I ate my pancakes this morning, I opened my nightstand to grab my journal and saw Daniel’s check folded in the dark corner of the drawer. It would make life so much easier if I just cashed the check. But I was stubborn. I didn’t want to rely on him. I knew deep down the baby needed me to check my ego at the door and accept his help. He was the father, after all.
Until that day, I would just have to figure it out. Day by day.
Monica was able to get me an appointment with my OB at four that afternoon. I felt my nerves creeping up my throat as the cab pulled up outside. Just a few days ago, I had seen Daniel here, and while the chance of seeing him again was slim, I was still absolutely terrified.
“You’re shaking,” said Monica softly as she grabbed my hand.
“Ridiculous, huh? I’m being ridiculous,” I said, looking out the window of the cab, up and down the sidewalks.
“You’re not, but you need to calm down. Okay?” said Monica worriedly.
I nodded and opened the door of the cab. I paid the driver before I heaved myself out of the car. I hated spending money on cabs when I had a perfectly fine subway pass, but Monica didn’t trust me not to go into labor down in the tunnels or the train.
Anxiously, I glanced at the spot where I had left Daniel on the curb before he chased me down the street. I sucked in a deep breath and walked by it and into the building.
My OB didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. The doctor from the hospital had sent over my charts. The doctor from the first hospital a few months ago had done the same. She knew everything about me, inside and out, and the look of concern on her face made me clutch my stomach tightly.
“Addison,” she said, narrowing her gaze and grabbing my hands firmly.
I slowly looked up at her.
“If you want this baby to come out healthy, I need you to rest. Stay home as much as possible. Let people help you. Okay?”
It was like she was trying to tell me something, even though she knew nothing about Daniel or our history.
“Okay,” I said softly.
I tried not to get frustrated by what she was saying. Or when the other doctors had said the same thing. I didn’t ask for my world to collapse around me or for my heart to be shattered.
Still, I promised her and myself that I would do as I was told.
Chapter 52
Daniel
I woke up surprisingly early, despite the night out for my birthday. While it wasn’t the normal party I partook of each year, we still had a risky combination of alcohol. Champagne. Sake. Beer. It was a true boys’ night out and I was surprised and grateful that my brother and best friend actually listened. I’m sure they were originally planning bottle service or a hotel suite, but the pool hall had been perfect.
We had stayed until closing, shooting pool and talking about my next move with Heart. For all being bachelors, I realized we did have some romantic bones in our bodies. They made me face the harsh reality that if I really wanted to be the man I said I wanted to be, which was a father and a husband, I needed to realize that money couldn’t buy that. And if it could, then it wasn’t the right woman.
We came up with various scenarios where I could win her back. I’m sure if anyone were listening to our conversation it would be ridiculously humorous. Three guys at a pool hall with pints of beer and talking about romantic gestures.
“You could write her letters,” suggested Brody.
“Letters?” I asked, raising a questioning brow.
“Yeah. A letter every day—”
“You’ve been watchingThe Notebooktoo many times.”