Strawberries

"You didn't call me last night."

"What?" you look across the table at me.

"Last night, when you made me take the bus home. You said you called me. You didn't, you just left me."

You furrow your brow slightly and look at me awkwardly. "Okay?"

I stand up and cross the kitchen, saying as I do: "I just wish you'd be a little more truthful. And not make me take the bus home."

"Nick, don't start."

"You always avoid this subject."

"Because it doesn't need to be talked about."

"It kind of does," I turn back around and look at you.

"No," you say tonelessly. "it doesn't."

I look down at the floor, my hand subconsciously traveling to my cheek and brushing the bruise on it. "You never really apologized for punching me, either."

You glare at me. "Are you going to cry about it?" The question almost puts me in tears, but I hold them back. You jerk your head to the side as you stand up out of the chair. "If we're done talking about this, I have somewhere I need to be."

"Where?"

"Somewhere"

"You're going on a date, aren't you?" I ask emotionlessly, looking into your cold eyes.

"No," you growl. "For your information, I'm actually not."

"Then where?"

"It's none of your buisiness, Nick."

"If it's not a date, why can't you tell me?" I ask indignantly, and you look as if you're itching to slap me. I raise my eyebrows innocently, curiously and tilt my head, looking up at you from my place at the table.

"Because it's my private life."

"You don't do a very good job of hiding much of your private life."

Now I can tell you really want to hit me. I think you're about to when you raise one of your hands, but you just rub the back of your neck. "And why do you need to know about it?"

"Because I'm your boyfriend?" Then I lower my voice. "One of them, at least."

"If you really need to know," you growl. "I'm going to a basketball game with my friends."

"That's the big secret?"

"Why?" You lean over the table on your hands, right on front of me. "Where should I be going?"

I shrug. "I don't know, but you do tend to lie a lot."

"I'm sorry," you say with false sympathy, pouting. "Does it upset you, Nicky?"

I glare at you, but I don't say anything more. You straighten up. "Okay, then. Are you done being butthurt so I can leave?"

"Sure," I growl.

But a minute after you leave, I follow you in my car. I keep a good distance behind you, but so I can still see you. When we stop, we're at the hospital. Why are you here? Are you okay?

Do you have an S.T.D? Serves you right, if you do.

After you walk into the building, I wait a few moments before following you. You head for the huge staircase, and I watch as you walk along the second level that wraps on the walls of the first. Making a note of what room you go into, I race up the stairs and peer through the little window. There you are, on one of the chairs. Guess who's sitting next to you?

Rory.

Your arm's wrapped around her shoulder and you put your hand on her belly. This is really the first time I've noticed it. And I gasp when I see it. It's fat. Bulging.

She's pregnant.

And by the way you're rubbing her belly, it's no doubt who the father is.

For a second I think you look up at the door. I back away from it, stumbling to the ground. I scramble to pick myself up and trip on my feet as I bolt down the hallway. I almost fall down he stairs as I blindly scurry down them and zip towards the front doors. Outside, I'm met by a blast of cold air as I run against the fall breeze towards my car.

And when I settle into the front seat, I don't go anywhere. I'm just sitting there crying.