The last thing I will ever ask for is my pregnant ex-bestfriend at my/mostly her apartment after four months.
The second last thing I will ask for is to die.
"Surprise," I say, hiding my confusion with an overdone smile. "Hey, Al."
"Hey Elliot, my parents called me back to Toronto for a few days, thought I might drop by New York afterwards to see you.." she shrugs, hands on her stomach. Wow, I thought. Things have really changed, her baby bump was there. I hesitantly welcome her in and seat her on a bar stool. "Do you.. want something to drink or eat?"
"No, I'll be fine. My eating habits have changed for the little boy.."
"Holy shit, never really hit me until now. You're seriously pregnant, eh? A boy you said?" Allison nods at all my questions. "He's going to grow up to be a heartbreaker."
My former bestfriend laughs. "I hope he doesn't break anyone's heart. We're still deciding on the name, we were thinking Jack.."
I nod excitedly. "Oh yes, Jack's are always super hot when they grow up, there are no exceptions," I blurt, then realizing I was talking about the fetus child of a woman of my own age. "I'm so happy for you."
"How about you? How have classes been?"
"Fine. I'm supposed to write an adaption of a Greek myth and put it into another era. I think I'll do Orion the Hunter, but make it about some girl in the great depression with an abusive brother and is totally in love with this boxer dude." Long pause. "I'm not joking."
Part of me wanted to run up to her and give her a hug. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her and how much I needed my bestfriend, I wanted to laugh with her and shop with her and do everything her. But my other half didn't want to, that half said I didn't need to. I could go on without her, the girl who ditched me while I was so low.
"How's Harry?" I ease in, suddenly so intrigued by my fingernails.
"Um, he's okay I guess. Didn't yet cut the curls, still his normal self. Misses you..." Allison shrugs. She seemed to be hiding something, but I didn't want to pry too much. What if he did cut his curls and isn't his normal self, what if it's because of me? "Anything else?" I ask.
"He's here."
My heart stops. "In New York? But why? Where?"
A deep voice calls from behind me. "Here."
Short, I know. It's hard to type with one finger. I had to go to the emergency room and get stitches, I split one of my fingers open with an electric potato masher. It's the finger version of Franken-Weinie.
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