Page 61 of This Woman Forever
“You can’t even look at me, can you?” she snaps, the anger that was missing earlier now here with a vengeance. I would look at her if I was sure she wouldn’t kill me with her glare. “You know what you’ve done is wrong.” Yes, I know. But worse fucking things have happened, trust me. “I pray to God I’m not pregnant, Jesse, because I wouldn’t inflict the shit you put me through on my worst enemy, let alone my baby.”
I jolt like I’ve been stabbed. And, again, trust me, I fucking know what that feels like. Her nostrils are flaring, her cheeks pulsing from the force of her bite, emotions getting the better of her. Of both of us. “I know you’re pregnant,” I say, as calmly as I can. “And I know how it’ll be.”
“Oh?” She’s laughing again. “How’s that, then?”
“Perfect,” I say quietly, reaching for her cheek, finding her eyes and making sure she sees the sincerity in mine. I don’t want to fight, and I know she doesn’t really want to either. She’s lashing out. Being hurtful. This isn’t Ava. This is what I’ve made her.
I wince those thoughts away as her body softens and she stares into my eyes, searching for reassurance. I’ll give it to her, all day long.
“Ava O’Shea,” the receptionist calls, snapping us out of our moment.
O’Shea?
Ava shoots up, and I follow. “Don’t you dare,” she snaps. “Sit.” I have never heard such anger in her tone, and I take notice, slowly lowering my arse back to the plastic obediently. She walks off, and I glance around the waiting room, seeing a few people looking this way, eyebrows high. Yes. I’m in the doghouse. Yes, my tail’s between my legs.
I grimace and stand, going to the reception desk and placing both palms on the wood. “It’s Ward,” I say.
“Pardon?”
“It’s Ava Ward, not Ava O’Shea.”
“Oh?” She taps a few keys on the computer. I don’t know why the fuck I’m standing here like a pillock telling the receptionist this. I realize Ava won’t have registered her married name yet. I’m just killing time, doing a bit of housekeeping, in an attempt to stop myself from storming into the doctor’s office.
“We got married on Saturday.”
“Oh, well if you tell Ava to email us, we can get that changed for her.”
“Can’t you do it now?”
“We need it in writing, sir. From Miss O’Shea.”
I huff and go back to the chair, checking my watch. Five minutes. I slump forward, staring down at my shoes.
Ten minutes pass.
Fifteen minutes.
How long do these things take? Ava tells the doctor she’s probably expecting, the doctor checks, and that’s it.
Right?
I crane my head to look down the corridor, drumming my fingers on my knees. I hear a door open. Freeze. Ava appears, and she looks awful. Fucking awful. I’m up like a rocket, racing to her. “Ava, what’s the matter?” She props herself against the wall, and I dip, seeing her face is damp. “Jesus, Ava.”
She stares at me, her eyes watery, her breathing a little fast. What is this? A panic attack?
I don’t have a chance to ask. She’s off, running across the hallway and falling through the doors of the ladies’. I’m in quick pursuit, there in a heartbeat, rubbing her back and scooping her hair back as she throws her guts up. Again.
She tries to talk but each time she’s stopped by another retch. “Shhhh,” I hush, looking back when the door opens. A middle-aged, blond lady takes in the scene, definitely frowning at me.
“Oh dear, should I get you some water?”
“Please,” I say, shuffling in closer to Ava, moving her hair to my other hand and pulling off some tissue. “Are you done?”
“I don’t know.” She sounds far from done, like she’s choking.
“It’s okay, we can stay.” I get as comfortable as a six-foot-three-inch bloke can get in a toilet cubicle crouching. Really uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”