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When I met him at baggage claim, he went in for a kiss, and I turned my head. The bastard had the nerve to seem confused, but I kept my mouth shut. As furious as I was, I’d learned my role. I was a rock star’s girlfriend, and anything I did in public stayed in public by way of a paparazzi telephoto lens. They were everywhere, even when I thought they weren’t.
So, I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood.
The ride home from the airport had been silent. It pissed me off that he either didn’t care he’d forgotten, or he wanted to be a dick about it. Either way, I planned on making his return home anything but happy.
Turning around, I propped my elbow on the door handle and rested my chin on the palm of my hand. The safety of not facing him served as my only strength.
“Phoebe, what’s going—”
“Shut up, Julian.”
“What?” I could feel his anger, and it strengthened my stubbornness.
I opened my mouth to deliver a brilliant, bitchy response, but as I took another ragged breath, tears spilled down my cheeks. “Fuck you.”
“Phoebe? Phoebe, look at me, damn it.”
I openly defied him, keeping my face toward the window. Raging hurt lingered in my soul. He’d missed the only chance we’d have to experience that moment together. Finding out if we were having a son or a daughter was supposed to be monumental. Especially since circumstances stole everything else about this pregnancy from us. The gut punch he’d caused today negated all rational thought.
Holding my breath, I waited for him to call my name again. Instead, he reached for the radio and turned it up full blast. We rode in silence as the loud metal music vibrated my shattered emotions. I rubbed my temple, trying to ward off the headache that brewed from the twenty minutes of pounding bass. Julian never said a word. He stared straight ahead with a locked jaw.
Pulling into the driveway, I hoisted myself out, grabbed my purse, and power walked up to the porch. Once I reached the front door, I cursed, realizing I didn’t have my key. I whispered a prayer of thanks under my breath as it easily opened. I thought I’d locked it before I left for the airport, but pregnancy brain had me forgetting most basic actions lately. Julian struggled behind me with his suitcase as he clamored up the front steps. I slammed the door behind me, knowing it probably closed directly in his face.
Good. I hope it hurt.
The front door opened and slammed with unnecessary force. “Thanks for shutting the fucking door in my face.”
I continued walking into the kitchen. “You deserved it.”
A few muffled footsteps and he closed a hard grip onto my elbow, turning me to face him. “What the hell is wrong with you, Phoebe?”
Anger welled inside me. The fact he forgot about the appointment and didn’t willfully dismiss it was almost worse. Every drop of self-restraint exited my body as I jerked my arm from his grasp.
“What the hell is wrong with me? Don’t get pissed at me for acting like a bitch when you started all this moody bullshit before you left. Do you even know what today was?” When he didn’t speak, I took a step, forcing him backward. “Well, let me jog your memory, Jagger. While you bowed for your adoring public, did you think to check your phone? Because if you did, you might’ve seen about seven missed calls. And if you listen to the voice mails I left, you’ll know why I want to break my foot off in your ass right now.”
“Oh, that’s rich. You berating me about checking voice mails.” His words hit hard, and I backed away from him. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Phoebe, I’ve had a long-ass day. Just tell me what the hell you—”
I shoved my hand into his pants pocket and produced his phone, holding it inches from his face. “Listen.”
Julian rolled his eyes as he entered his passcode to access his voice mail. As my first message played, his hostile expression faded into a furrowed brow and a downturned mouth. As much as I tried to hold on to my anger, the torture on his face melted it into hollow sadness with each message that played. By the seventh and final one—the one where I dissolved into tears—breath stilled in his chest.
When he finally spoke, it took him three tries to find his voice. “Do you…” he rubbed a shaking hand across his mouth, “…are we having…” His voice trailed off as regret reflected in his eyes. I wanted to rage and scream at him and make him feel as ravaged as I did in that exam room. But one look at his tormented face and I knew I couldn’t purposely hurt him.
“No,” I said quietly.
“Oh, thank god.”
Lifting my chin, I held his stare. “Part of me wanted to find out just to piss you off. But I couldn’t do it. Not without you.”
He cleared his throat. “So we don’t know?”
I lifted an eyebrow at his question. “Oh, we know.” He stared at me in confusion. “I didn’t know if we’d get another ultrasound, so I had the tech write down the sex and seal it in an envelope. I figured we could open it at the shower.”
“Shower?”
My breathing became erratic at the possibility of another missed opportunity. “Julian Bale, don’t fucking tell me you forgot about the baby shower Faith is throwing for us in two weeks. You promised you’d make sure Kristina cleared your schedule. She’s making the whole band come, so you have no excuse.” With out of control emotions swirling, I shoved him in the center of his chest. “I swear to shit, Bale, if you skip out on me again…”
Blinking rapidly, his regret quickly manifested into annoyance. “Jesus, calm down, Phoebe! I won’t miss the shower. I’m sorry about the appointment, all right? I had every intention of making it, then two extra interviews got tacked on at the last minute, which made us miss our flight. And besides that, the interviews weren’t even for the band. They were solo publicity promos for the damn book we’re supposed to be doing together, remember? Being pulled in fifty different directions doesn’t lend itself to punctuality, okay?”
