Page 45 of Babydaddy To Go

Even if she is a cheater.

15

Alyssa

Monday

My alarm clock shrills beside my bed. It takes everything in me not to throw the annoying machine against the wall.

I should get up. This is already my fifth snooze. If I don’t get out of bed in the next five minutes, I won’t make it to class on time.

I slap the alarm clock so it stops making that obnoxious, high pitched sound. Who decided that the default setting for alarms should be the most aggravating noise ever to exist?

Five minutes pass and I still lay under my blue comforter. There’s no way I’ll make it to class before Nate starts his lecture.

Nate. Just thinking his name brings tears to my eyes. How did things get so screwed up?

I can’t go to class today. Or any day, really. I don’t think I can face that man ever again, not after everything that happened.

Flipping over, I bury my face in my pillow, feeling like my heart is breaking into a million pieces. How could I have been so stupid? I never should have gotten involved with my culinary instructor. Now, not only is my dream of becoming a chef destroyed, but my heart is broken, too.

My phone sits neglected on my bedside table. I’ve hardly touched it since I got to my apartment Saturday morning. I blame it for everything that happened with Nate.

In my messages, those awful texts still sit unmistakably clear. Who is this guy? Did I really sleep with him? I don’t remember it happening, but I’ve heard stories about girls having sex with guys and forgetting they ever did it. Usually, drugs are involved. Is that what happened to me? Would I even know if it did?

I try responding to the texts again, asking who the mysterious person is. Since that morning, I’ve sent the same, “who the hell are you?” message twelve times. Each one receives the same response:The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.

This morning’s attempt is no different.

Clutching the phone against my chest, I finally climb out of bed. I may not be going to class, but I can’t stay here wallowing any longer.

I’ve hardly eaten since Saturday morning. My usually huge appetite has completely disappeared. I want to prepare myself a giant breakfast since cooking usually relaxes me, but I know it’ll go to waste. I decide to throw a couple pieces of bread into the toaster instead.

While I eat, I watch my phone. Class started five minutes ago. Is Nate missing me? He’s probably thrilled that I’m not there so he doesn’t have to face him.

I can’t believe he wouldn’t let me explain the messages. He was so quick to accept that I had to be cheating on him, as if that was the only possible explanation. The person used my name, but that doesn’t mean anything. It could have been a wrong number or someone who took advantage of me.

I don’t know what hurts worse. The fact that Nate didn’t care enough to listen to me, or the fact that even after everything, I still love him. My heart didn’t get the memo that it’s supposed to hate the guy that hurt it.

The buttered toast sticks in my throat as I struggle to swallow it. As soon as it hits my stomach I feel like I’m going to vomit it back on the plate. So much for eating. I don’t know why I bothered.

Moving to the living room, I flip on the small TV I keep in here. The bigger one is in my bedroom for maximum viewing comfort, but I wanted to be able to sit on the couch and enjoy television, too.

The last time I watched it was that first night Nate came over. I’ve been too busy between school and going out with Nate to turn it on again. Which means the channel is already set to a cooking station, and of course Nate’s show is playing right now. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Quickly, I change the channel to something less gut wrenching. I settle on some crime drama I’ve seen before. It’s easy to get lost in a show like this. I start watching from the beginning and I can’t help but finish because I need to know who the bad guy is. Plus, there’s no chance I’m going to see Nate’s handsome face in this show. He may dabble in cooking shows and reality shows, but he’s never ventured into fiction.

During the first commercial break, my mind wanders. What are they doing in class right now? I bet Samantha is thrilled to have that kitchen all to herself. In fact, she’s probably making up excuses to flirt with Nate in my absence. The thought makes me want to punch her in the face.

Aside from Samantha, I’m jealous of the others in the class. None of them crossed the line I did. They’ll finish the course next year and likely get jobs as chefs in prestigious restaurants. Nate may hire a few himself.

A couple weeks ago, Nate mentioned that NYACA has been struggling to churn out successful chefs and that’s why he was brought on. Apparently, there’s no one better than Nate to teach the class. At the time, I completely agreed. Now I wonder how things would have been different if the teacher was someone less tempting, like an old man or a woman. I certainly wouldn’t be sitting on my couch watching people use psychology to solve murders. I’d be in the kitchen learning how to be the chef I’ve been dreaming of becoming.

That dream is over now.

My phone buzzes from its place on the coffee table. A photo of Grams and me taken over the summer lights up the screen. Without thinking, I answer it.

“Hello?”