"I bought a house," Toby told me over the phone one morning, early April.
"What?" I said, sure I hadn't heard right.
"I bought a house," he repeated.
"Why would you do that?"
I got up from my bathroom floor where I had been laying since six in the morning and sat on the edge of the tub. I was sure I had never been so sick before. Being pregnant sucked.
"I wanted to. I mean, I actually have money now. Why stay in that apartment? And, you know, when the, um, baby comes," he said awkwardly, and I smiled a little because it was the first time he said the real word, "we probably shouldn't be in an apartment."
It was sweet what he'd said, but it just made me feel sick (or maybe that was just the baby) because I knew, even then, that wouldn't happen. That couldn't happen. But I couldn't say that.
"I guess that's true," I agreed.
"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly, confusing me.
"What? Yeah, I'm fine."
"You sound... not fine."
"Oh, well I don't really feel good. But I mean, other than that I'm alright," I assured him, trying my best to sound really alright.
"Can I help?" he asked and I smiled.
"No, I'll be okay."
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you too," I said and hung up, wondering when we had gotten so comfortable with the three words that we shortened them to just two.
I was trying to imagine myself living with Toby. In a real house. One that I probably decorated because he, like most men, did not understand decoration. They didn't understand throw pillows and flowers, but their wives still had them. I would still have them around the house. And when I tried imagining a baby I imagined a little girl. Blonde hair just like mine when I was little, Toby's hazel eyes, maybe two years old, with a Winnie the Pooh pacifier and blanket, and Minnie Mouse footie pajamas, running over to Toby who had just gotten home from wherever—a meeting, maybe.
And I started to cry. I cried because I knew I would never have any of that. No matter what. Because Toby and I weren't made to last. I hated to think like that because I loved him. I hated to think one day he would walk out of my door and slam it for good. Most of all, though, I hated that one day someone else would have him to hold at 2 AM. And he would make love to them. He would look into their eyes like he looked into mine as he moved in them and at first he'd go slow but then it would be fast and they'd beg for it even faster just like I did. And they'd scream his name and dig their fingernails into his back, maybe even breaking skin because I did once, and they'd leave marks replacing mine, though those probably faded some time before then. And I just hated the idea of someone else having him that way. I wanted to be the only one. I knew I'd find someone else too and I knew I'd be happy but why couldn't I be happy with him? Why couldn't we last? Why were we so goddamn breakable?
I didn't know the answer to any of it and it killed me not knowing. But I wiped away my tears and I sat back up, only then realizing I was back lying down on the floor. I kept telling myself it didn't matter because it was true. It didn't. Not then. Right then I was still with him and later that night he would come over and I'd hold him all night. Next morning we'd fight like hell and he'd storm out, but then after two days he'd come over and we'd do it all again.
He was still mine at the time.
A/N: Really short chapter, which is why I decided to post it right after the last one. I just couldn't add anything else. I felt like it would take away from the rest.
I'm getting some views, but that's about it. So if you are reading it, maybe let me know with a follow or review or favorite or whatever so I don't just give this up. Although, I'm trying my hardest not to get discouraged and do that.