Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I doze off, waking at three. I grab my phone, certain I’ll see a missed call or text from Noah. My background image of Vader looks back at me. What the hell, Noah? Where are you? I call him, get his voicemail, then call right back. Voicemail again.
Unease grows and now I’m thinking he’s dead on the side of the road. Stupid, dangerous motorcycle.
I flop back down, getting a little pissed. I was up late last night after dinner, and now I’m up late again and need to get up early tomorrow for the shower. And so does Noah, because he said he wanted to go with me.
Five whole minutes go by before I call him again. If he’s not dead already, he’s going to be when he gets home. Voicemail again. I turn on the TV, unable to sleep. Exhaustion hits me around three-thirty, yet I can’t turn my brain off to sleep. I call Noah again, and he answers, but all I hear is background noise. Loud music, muffled voices.
“Noah?” No reply. “Noah!”
I’m fairly positive I hear his voice before the line goes dead. At least he’s alive, right? Well, alive for now, because I’m pretty sure I’m going to fucking kill him in his sleep tonight. If he ever comes home.
I lay down, trying to take solace in the fact he’s alive and still at the bar, but it doesn’t work. I’m mad he made me worry, mad he didn’t come home to spend time with me, and mad I’m going to be tired in the morning. I’ve been constantly tired since I got knocked up, and this isn’t helping.
I close my eyes and the phone rings. It’s Noah.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lauren, it’s Joey. Again. Your man is drunk as a skunk. Again.”
I sigh. “I’ll be there to get him.”
Joey gives a grunt in reply and hangs up. I toss my head back against the pillow, not wanting to get out of bed. I throw on a T-shirt and yoga pants, and step into flip-flops. I get super tired as I drive to the bar, which only enhances my anger.
Pregnant lady rage is a real thing.
I park in front of the bar and call Noah but get no answer. I cut the engine and wait. There are still quite a few cars here. What the hell do people do at bars for that long? Don’t they have lives to get back to? And how much money is wasted buy drink after drink for hours on end?
I should have opened a biker bar and not had to worry about school and student loans.
Five minutes and eight calls later, Noah still isn’t out. Angrily muttering to myself, I get out of the car and walk to the bar. I can smell the cigarette smoke already and take one last deep breath before pulling the door open and stepping inside.
Noah is sitting on a barstool, eyes fluttering, talking to some guy who looks just as drunk. He blinks when he sees me then gets up, stumbling. He’s fucking wasted.
I grab his hand and pull him outside.
“Hey, baby,” he slurs. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get in the damn car.”
“Want me to take you out back and rock your world?”
I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Car. Now.”
He makes a face and trips over his own feet. This is the Noah Wilson I remember from our youth. It takes him more than one attempt to buckle himself in. Tired and cranky, I don’t talk on the way home. Noah wobbles his way inside and falls onto the couch.
“Get up and shower. You smell like an ashtray.”
He grumbles in response and doesn’t move. I cross my arms. “Noah, get up!” I tug on his arm. “This is pointless.”
He groans. “I don’t feel good.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I think I’m gonna puke.”
Oh god. That’s another thing I do not want to deal with. I go to him and help him up, practically dragging him to the bathroom just in time for him to heave into the toilet. He slumps against it, retching. I’m fucking pissed, but I can’t leave him like that, not when he could choke.
It takes great effort, but I get him stripped from his stinky clothes, and drape a blanket around his shoulders. He throws up once more then lays on the bathroom floor. I get into bed but can’t sleep out of worry I’ll wake up and find Noah dead of alcohol poisoning or something.
He’s passed the fuck out when I check on him. Finally feeling he’s okay, I get back into bed for a few hours of sleep.
“Where is Noah?” Mom asks the next day. People are just starting to arrive for the baby shower that she’s hosting at her house. Our baby shower. That Noah isn’t at because I couldn’t get him to wake up this morning. He swatted his hand in the air and mumbled something incoherent. I gave up and left in tears, fixing my eye makeup in the car.