“Oh no,” she finally manages. “I’m so sorry. I bet he was pissed.”
My voice still cracks when I tell her, “Yeah. He stormed off. Told me I was on own.”
“I’m coming over,” she says. “Don’t move an inch. I’ll be there soon. Will you be okay until then?”
I wipe my cheek with the heel of my hand. “I will. Thanks, Gwen.”
Gwen is by my side in a flash. I wonder how many traffic rules she broke to get here so fast. She holds me in her arms and tells me she’ll be here for me, no matter what. She tells me she’ll sit for me, run to the grocery store, and buy cute little outfits for the baby. She says she hopes it’s a girl because there are so much more fashion choices for girls. And she tells me she’s glad I’ve decided to keep the baby. “I’m sorry I brought you to that clinic,” she says. “And I’m sorry I said you were ruining your life. You’re not. This baby is a precious gift.” A weight is lifted as I realize that no matter what, I have support. Even if I don’t have Gabe’s or Weston’s support, I’ll always have Gwen.
And just as expected, she instantly goes into ‘cheer-up-Mirella’ mode. She makes me my favorite tea, selects one of my favorite movies (Dirty Dancing) from my DVD collection and plops it into the player. She even does my nails in a bright orange color, which I hate, but that’s of absolutely no importance to me at the moment. I try to get lost in the movie but I just can’t. Even Baby and Johnny’s story, which I love, can’t get me out of my funk. Johnny reminds me of Gabe too much — the quintessential sexy tortured rebel with a heart of gold. Although my bad boy’s heart wasn’t so golden when I told him about the baby. He’s never been so hurtful.
I vacuum the living room, not wanting the girls to prick their toes on microscopic shards of glass, as Gwen makes us smoothies. She insisted when I told her I didn’t want dinner.
She takes a seat next to me and hands me one of the rather disgusting looking green smoothies. I have no clue what she’s put in there but I suspect broccoli might have been involved. I eye it suspiciously and she forces me to drink it. “You need to keep your baby healthy.”
Surprisingly, it’s not horrible. As I drain my glass, I reach for the phone. “I should call Caroline and tell her to bring the girls over.”
But just as I reach for the receiver, the phone shrills, the old familiar melody ringing in my ears. It is a number I don’t recognize and I pray to the Gods it’s not a telemarketer because this is really not a good time. Whatever poor soul is at the other end of the line will most certainly get his or her head chewed off, in one huge, single bite.
“Hello,” I venture cautiously.
“Hello, Mirella.” I recognize the voice, but the tone is all wrong. Something tells me this voice should be cheerful, sweet. But it is edgy and shaky.
“Hello,” I venture once again, knowing I know this woman, but can’t quite put my finger on her.
“Mirella,” she says with a heavy sigh. Her voice is still shaky. “It’s Bridget.”
My stomach drops. I’ve never spoken to Bridget on the phone before and I’ve never heard her quite like this. She’s clearly upset and I wonder what’s wrong. My mind immediately jumps to Weston. He was so upset the last time I saw him and he never did call me. But then, I asked him not to. Could he have told her about our little tryst?
“I’m at the precinct with Gabe,” Bridget tells me, her words as cold as ice. “You should come down immediately.”
My mind whirls around. “What?” A flood of emotions overtake me. I have a million questions. Were they in an accident? Were they together? Did he tell her about the baby?
When she tells me what happened, a wave of nausea hits me. I can’t believe her words. It feels like I’m caught in a bad nightmare. I worry about Weston. I worry about Gabe.
I grab the pen and notepaper by the phone and jot down the details she gives me, my mind numb. Gwen stares at me, wide-eyed, a half-empty smoothie in her hand. I ask Bridget a question or two but she dismisses them.