A Nice Guy

34

I wake up early the next day, earlier than necessary so that I can cook Hazel breakfast before going into work. I make waffles, eggs, and bacon. I smother butter and syrup over the waffles, and sprinkle grated cheddar cheese over the eggs. She's still sleeping when I walk into the room with the plate full of food.

I place it next to her on the nightstand, carefully setting a knife and fork beside it. I gently nudge her, resulting in her eyes fluttering open, sleepily looking up at me. "I made some breakfast. I'm about to leave for work, I'll see you later," I quietly tell her.

She gives me a weak smile, glancing at the plate. I watch as she falls back asleep, not minding that the food will likely get cold and soggy. It's the thought that counts, right? Whether she actually eats it or not isn't a concern of mine, as long as she knows I went through the trouble to cook for her, I'm content.

After work, I stop by Derrick's house to retrieve some of Hazel's belongings. He's got them neatly stacked on the porch; mostly clothes and daily essentials. He texted me earlier stating that movers would be dropping off the rest of her belongings later in the week. The text was short and to the point.

Speaking of texts, Anna sent me a long paragraph while I was at work. Did I bother reading it? Of course not. I blocked her, deleted our messages, and went about my day. There's no need to entertain her any longer, she's not serving a purpose in my life at this point.

I grab one of the piles of clothes, bringing it to my car, returning to the porch for another when I spot some pill bottles lying on a shirt. One contains an anti depressant, the other an anxiety medication. I shove them in my pocket, not giving them a second thought. We've all got problems, after all.

When I'm back at my place, I freeze at the sight of Hazel still in bed. She hasn't moved. The plate of food is still sitting on the nightstand, untouched. It's now four in the afternoon. She must be starving, especially being so far along in her pregnancy. It irritates me a little bit, her being so irresponsible, but I brush it off.

I walk over to her. "Hey," I begin, resting my hand on her shoulder. "Let's get you out of bed so you can eat something. How does that sound?"

She groans, refusing to open her eyes. Instead, she covers her face with her arm. Seconds later, she's crying, her body shaking with every sob. I sigh. I remove my shoes and work clothes, then climb into the bed with her. I wrap my arms around her and kiss her head. Eventually, we fall asleep.

Hours later, I wake up with her head on my shoulder and hand resting on my chest once again. I gently shake her awake, tell her she should shower. She agrees, but only if I shower with her again. So I repeat the same process as before; I wash her hair, detangling it half way through. I wash her body, over and over again. I rinse her off, dry her, comb through her hair.

When I tuck her into bed again, I leave the room to grab her a glass of water and two pills; her anti depressant and anxiety medication. I hand her the glass first, and then the pills. She takes them without asking any questions, immediately sinking into the bed afterwards.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

"No."

"You have to be, you haven't had anything to eat today. I'm worried."

"So."

I sit next to her on the bed. "What about the baby? If you're hungry, she's hungry, right?"

She's quiet for a moment before muttering, "I'm not hungry."

I feel my eye twitch from irritation. I'm trying my best to be patient with her, but she's being so fucking difficult. "Fine then." I leave the room, shutting the door behind me. If she won't eat, then I won't keep her company.

It's eight at night. I stare at the neon numbers on the microwave, watching as four zeros blink at me, telling me my food is ready. I take a seat on the couch, slurping some noodles and watching Friends. I hear the bedroom door open not two minutes after turning the TV on. I don't say anything, though.

She walks over and sits on the cushion next to me, staring at my noodles. I notice and offer her a bite, and she inhales it. I let her have the rest.

This goes on for days; the same routine. I make her breakfast, she doesn't eat it. I go to work, she stays in bed. I come home, wash her, ask if she's hungry, she says no. So I leave her, make some food, and she eats whatever I end up making for myself. I've learned to make a large meal at the end of the night, though. That way she's getting as much food as possible.

On the fourth day, the movers deliver her belongings. I call off of work to rearrange my place to accommodate everything. She stays in bed, hiding under the covers. When everything is unloaded, the movers leave, and the cluttered space grows eerily quiet.

I check on Hazel in the bedroom to find her staring out of the window. She's got her hair piled up into a messy bun, but it doesn't look effortless and beautiful like it usually does, no. It looks sad and frizzy, like she'd been in bed all day, which she had. I stand beside her, looking out the window with her.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

She doesn't move, and her eyes stay locked on whatever she's staring at. "Good."

I take a breath. "Really?"

"Yes."

I shift my gaze from the view of the neighborhood to her face. "Then why are you crying?"

She quickly wipes her tears away. "I'm not."

I scoff. "Hazel—"

Suddenly, she jerks her hand back, as if she's about to hit me. But she doesn't. Instead, she grabs a fistful of my shirt and pulls me close to her face. "You got what you wanted, Alex." Her voice is angry, brimming with hostility, but her eyes hold nothing but sorrow.

I flinch at her words, noting that she's stretching the fabric of one of my favorite shirts. It's fine though, really. "What do you mean?" I ask. I'm playing dumb, of course. Because yes, I got what I wanted, but she doesn't need to hear that from me right now.

She shoves me away from her. Then shoves me again, and again, until we're in the middle of the room. "Why do you act like I'm stupid?!" She yells, slapping me across the face. She freezes, as if realizing what she'd done.

I guess she liked the feeling she got from it, because she slaps me again. Before she's able to hit me a third time, I grab her hand, but she slaps me with the other. "You fucking asshole," she huffs, pulling her hand from my grip. "I hate you," she says, punching my chest. "I hate you," she says again, shoving me, then punching me once more.

I give up on attempting to block her slaps and punches, instead letting her hit me until she's satisfied. She throws a final punch to my chest using both fists; it's weak with no actual force behind it. She leaves them pressed against my body, tightly balling my shirt into them. She leans her head forward, then begins to sob into the fabric. Her cries fill the room with a heartbreaking noise, a noise that makes me shiver.

I wrap my arms around her, kissing her head, and whisper in her ear that I'm sorry, over and over again.