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“Um…” a small clearing of my throat is given to buy myself time, “do you happen to know where Wes is?”
“Shouldn’t he be there with you?”
Yes.
Yes, he sure fucking should.
“Isn’t it your baby doctor day?” The concern in his voice increases. “Aren’t you supposed to be going twice a month because of your concussion?”
Right again.
Why my future husband’s best friend seems to remember more about this situation than the actual man I’m signing up to marry isn’t helping kill that ache in the pit of my stomach so much as causing it to fucking grow.
Bigger.
Stronger.
Blatantly more painful.
“Is he really not fucking answering?!” I swear his movements completely cease. “Not a video? Not a call? Not even a fucking text?”
It grows more difficult to hide the heartache. “No.”
His sudden shock is presented in silence.
Unbearable.
Bile stirring.
Silence.
And when he finally speaks again, it’s in an almost stutter like fashion. “Do you…uh…do you…um…want me to…um come there?” J.T. diligently works to steady his voice. “You want me to reschedule all of this shit, Bryn? I can be there in…” A brief pause is taken. “Twenty, twenty-two minutes tops.”
“No, I’m fine, Puppet Boy.” Tears clumping together in my vocal cords prove otherwise. “I can do this shit.”
“But-”
“I can do it on my own.”
“Yes, but-”
“Get to your meeting,” I quickly insist. “We can talk later.”
“We will talk later.” His correction is forceful and irrefutable. “Text me after your appointment. Let me know everything went fine, alright?”
An almost bashful nod he can’t see is given. “Sure thing, J.T.”
Ending the call occurs before he can inquire about my choice in using his name or can second guess that I’m really fine.
Because I am fine.
Er.
I’ll be fine.
I’m like the hammerhead species.
Endangered but made of what it takes to fucking survive.
