Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Oh, my God.” She put up a hand to silence me, but I went on.
“But that doesn’t mean we have to stop hanging out completely. It just means I don’t want a girlfriend. I really don’t have time, with Paisley and everything.”
“Don’t you dare use your daughter as an excuse. This isn’t about her.”
I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest like the stupid asshole I was while she gathered herself up.
“You know what, Nate? You were right about me. I trust too easily. I get carried away. I give up my heart without a fight. Congratulations on showing me the truth.” She walked to the door and opened it before turning around again. “I get it now. Sometimes a fuck is just a fuck.”
Then she was gone.
I couldn’t sleep. Paisley was restless too, and I spent much of the night pacing the bedroom floor, trying to soothe her and trying to convince myself that I’d done the right thing in setting Emme free. I went over and over my reasons, and every single time I came to the same conclusion. Ultimately, it was never going to work. We were too different. We didn’t want the same things. We would have hurt each other in the end.
But it felt fucking horrible.
I kept seeing her face when I told her I hadn’t meant what I’d said Friday night. She’d been so devastated. It was such a shitty way to end things, to lie to her like that, but I’d been afraid that if I wasn’t a complete dickhead, she’d have been understanding and granted me the space I requested.
Crowded. What a fucking joke. I never felt crowded by her. In fact, all I ever wanted to do was get closer.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
How the hell was I going to get over her? Especially living right across the hall? Were we ever going to speak to each other again? God, I missed her already and she’d only been gone a few hours. And what if I saw her with a guy in the hall or something? Some douchebag who didn’t deserve to touch her hair or hear her laugh or hold her hand, let alone see her naked or smell her skin or feel her legs wrapped around him?
Fuck that guy! I’d fucking tear him apart.
No one deserved those things. Not even me.
Especially not me.
I moved Paisley up to my shoulder, and noticed that she seemed a little warm. Immediately I pressed her cheek to mine. It was burning hot. An alarm bell went off in my head.
I turned on the nightstand lamp and saw that her face was flushed. Oh, fuck! What if she had a fever? What should I do?
My first instinct was to go get Emme, but then I remembered that I couldn’t. Dammit! Grimacing, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and called Rachel. No answer.
Fuck!
Should I take her to the emergency room? But what if they asked for information I didn’t have? I didn’t even know her fucking birth date, for God’s sake! Or her social security number, her blood type, her weight, or anything else about her except her name. And I wasn’t even legally her father yet. Would they let me give consent to treat her?
I couldn’t worry about that—I had to take her. What if something was really wrong? I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her while she was in my care.
“Shhhhh, it’s okay,” I murmured, for myself as much for her. My heart was pounding. “It’s going to be okay.”
I set her in the sleeper so I could quickly get dressed and put some shoes on. Downstairs, I got her into her jacket and car seat, grabbed my keys, and had just gone out the door when my phone vibrated. It was Rachel calling me back.
“Hello?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think she has a fever.”
She gasped. “Oh no!”
“She was fine all day,” I said quickly, as if I had to prove this wasn’t my fault. “She ate and slept and was really good.”
“Did you take her temperature?”
“No.” That hadn’t even occurred to me. I was too busy panicking.
“Do you have an infant thermometer?”
Did I? Had Emme put one in the basket at the baby store? Maybe she did. “Actually, yes. I think so. I’ll look. You don’t think I should take her right to the emergency room?”
“Depends on her fever. Take her temperature and tell me what it is. I’ll either meet you at an Urgent Care or your apartment.”
At that moment, Emme’s apartment door opened and she appeared in her robe, pajama pants, and bare feet. My heart ached. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept, either. I wanted to wrap my arms around her so badly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, looking at Paisley. “Is she sick?”