Gerard's Little (Big) Secret
Our Inability....
“Want anything?” Bert asked, as he ordered a Big Mac, large fry, and extra large drink.
“Something not containing 50 pounds of grease, and smelling of shit,” I wrinkled my nose, trying not to inhale the gross scent of McDonalds. It made me sick to the bottom of my stomach.
“Salad for Mr-Drama-Queen-Complainer,” He told the lady behind the counter. I rolled my eyes, and glared at him, she chuckled, and typed in the order. She told us we could have a seat, and she’d call our number or bring it over, so I made Bert sit in the furthest corner from all the scents and smells that were making me want to vomit once more.
I don’t think I’ll ever get drunk and fuck again. That was a mistake. I never want to be pregnant again. I feel bad for all the women in the world. All that shit they go through, and I’m only in my first trimester. Ugh….
“Looks like Dillon is making you more ill by the moment GeeTard,” Bert giggled, looking at my even paler face, and noticing my hand splayed across my stomach in a pitiful attempt to get the gurgling and the flips to calm down.
“I think I’ll be dead by the last trimester,” I groaned weakly. He smiled sympathetically, and patted my shoulder.
“You’ll live, trust me. Now, I think that’s our number, and I would really like to eat.” He got up, and went to receive the tray from the girl who was flirting hopelessly with him. I guess dying his hair blonde and cutting it was a good idea. He’s had endless flirts and fucks since.
He came back, balancing the tray and napkins and straws, and setting them down quickly, followed by flopping his ass back down into the booth, and hungrily grabbing a handful of fries. I wrinkled my nose again, and took the lid off my salad, praying it tasted somewhat reasonable.
It actually tasted better than any salad I’d had in months, and it probably wasn’t all that good, considering it was from McDonalds. Seemingly, it calmed my stomach, as well. “If this is all I can eat, I’m going to go through the roof,” I murmured, finishing the last bite 15 minutes later.
“Why? It’s salad.”
“Yeah, but I can’t stand coming in here, cause of the smell, and I hate going through the drive through, they always screw things up.”
“Well, I guess you’re s.o.l,” He chuckled.
“Shut the fuck up,” I glared.
He finished hisgreasy shit food, and threw the tray on top of the garbage, before we walked out to his car. He drove me back to my apartment, and left me there, telling me that he’d call to see how I was later on. He really is a good friend.
xXx
It was 8 that night, and I was eating one of those pints of Ben & Jerry’s, crying to Sixteen Candles, and wishing Frankie was here, which was making me cry even harder. Pregnancy kinda sucked.
The door slammed, and I jumped three feet. “What the fuck?!” I mumbled angrily. I paused the movie, and moved quietly to the foyer, where Frank was stumbling through the door. I sighed, a cross between relief, and anger.
“Frank?” I asked him, my voice a little angry. “What the hell?”
“Soooo, sssoooorrrryy,” He slurred. I rolled my eyes, and gripped his arm to help him to the living room. I sat him down on the couch, and he looked at me, his eyes a muddy brown color, from the alcohol, and the tears he had streaming down his face. For a moment, just one, I felt something for him. Pitiful.
“I neevvverr meant too.” He explained, rambling endlessly under his breath. “I lovvvee you. It was just a suggestion. Never really meant to go throughh with it. Gee, pllleaassee,” He hiccupped. “P-please.”
I rolled my eyes, as his eyelids started to droop, and he started passing out. I grabbed him, and carried him to the bedroom, quickly undressing him, and tucking him in, before stripping to my boxers, and climbing in next to him. I stroked his cheek gently, and kissed his forehead.
“You’re forgiven,” I whispered, kissing his forehead twice more. “You’re forgiven.”
xXx
“Ungh,” I moaned, throwing up more, and clutching my stomach. I heard Frank stir, and then groan himself. He muttered something, before calling my name out, just as I lurched forward, beginning to throw up more.
I think he took the hint, cause five minutes later, he came him, and started trying to comfort and calm me, telling me it would be okay, and to get it all out. Once I finally felt somewhat reasonable, I sat against the bathroom wall, and stared at him.
He tried avoiding my stare, waiting for me to say something. It didn’t work. I still stared, and I didn’t say anything. “Soooo…” He trailed off. I still continued to just stare, unblinkingly.
“Okay,” He took a deep breath. “Gee, I’m sorry. It was just a suggestion I thought maybe we could discuss. I was never going to force you, or purposely hurt you. All I wanted was for you to know our options. Because, to be honest, I don’t know if I can be a parent,” He explained.
“You think I can?” I whispered finally. “But I’m willing to try Frankie. And if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can make it.”
“I do.” He said. “Want to. I just don’t think I’ll be a good dad…” I smiled, and inched over to him, resting my head on his shoulder, listening to him talk, the vibrations of his voice bouncing off his shoulder. “I want it to have a good family life, you know, a dog, a nice house with a picket fence surrounding the yard, neighbors that she hangs out with everyday in the summer…not…two dads working full time jobs to pay the bills, and an apartment to live in.”
“But we’ll love it just as much, and we’ll make sure Dillon knows it,” I reply. He looks down at me, confusion etched in his face.
“Who’s Dillon?” I blush, and look down at my stomach.
“Bert temporarily named the baby Dillon,” I answered, and he grinned.
“Dillon Iero-Way…” He trailed off. “If you’ll let me be a part of it.” I looked up at him, almost shocked, and pounced, kissing his lips hard. He grinned into his, sliding his tongue along my bottom lip. I let him in, and he battle for dominance, quickly winning over, and sending us to the floor.
He gritted his teethe as he tore my shirt off, and kissed down my neck. “There’s something about the bathrooms and our inability to keep it in our pants…”
“Something not containing 50 pounds of grease, and smelling of shit,” I wrinkled my nose, trying not to inhale the gross scent of McDonalds. It made me sick to the bottom of my stomach.
“Salad for Mr-Drama-Queen-Complainer,” He told the lady behind the counter. I rolled my eyes, and glared at him, she chuckled, and typed in the order. She told us we could have a seat, and she’d call our number or bring it over, so I made Bert sit in the furthest corner from all the scents and smells that were making me want to vomit once more.
I don’t think I’ll ever get drunk and fuck again. That was a mistake. I never want to be pregnant again. I feel bad for all the women in the world. All that shit they go through, and I’m only in my first trimester. Ugh….
“Looks like Dillon is making you more ill by the moment GeeTard,” Bert giggled, looking at my even paler face, and noticing my hand splayed across my stomach in a pitiful attempt to get the gurgling and the flips to calm down.
“I think I’ll be dead by the last trimester,” I groaned weakly. He smiled sympathetically, and patted my shoulder.
“You’ll live, trust me. Now, I think that’s our number, and I would really like to eat.” He got up, and went to receive the tray from the girl who was flirting hopelessly with him. I guess dying his hair blonde and cutting it was a good idea. He’s had endless flirts and fucks since.
He came back, balancing the tray and napkins and straws, and setting them down quickly, followed by flopping his ass back down into the booth, and hungrily grabbing a handful of fries. I wrinkled my nose again, and took the lid off my salad, praying it tasted somewhat reasonable.
It actually tasted better than any salad I’d had in months, and it probably wasn’t all that good, considering it was from McDonalds. Seemingly, it calmed my stomach, as well. “If this is all I can eat, I’m going to go through the roof,” I murmured, finishing the last bite 15 minutes later.
“Why? It’s salad.”
“Yeah, but I can’t stand coming in here, cause of the smell, and I hate going through the drive through, they always screw things up.”
“Well, I guess you’re s.o.l,” He chuckled.
“Shut the fuck up,” I glared.
He finished hisgreasy shit food, and threw the tray on top of the garbage, before we walked out to his car. He drove me back to my apartment, and left me there, telling me that he’d call to see how I was later on. He really is a good friend.
xXx
It was 8 that night, and I was eating one of those pints of Ben & Jerry’s, crying to Sixteen Candles, and wishing Frankie was here, which was making me cry even harder. Pregnancy kinda sucked.
The door slammed, and I jumped three feet. “What the fuck?!” I mumbled angrily. I paused the movie, and moved quietly to the foyer, where Frank was stumbling through the door. I sighed, a cross between relief, and anger.
“Frank?” I asked him, my voice a little angry. “What the hell?”
“Soooo, sssoooorrrryy,” He slurred. I rolled my eyes, and gripped his arm to help him to the living room. I sat him down on the couch, and he looked at me, his eyes a muddy brown color, from the alcohol, and the tears he had streaming down his face. For a moment, just one, I felt something for him. Pitiful.
“I neevvverr meant too.” He explained, rambling endlessly under his breath. “I lovvvee you. It was just a suggestion. Never really meant to go throughh with it. Gee, pllleaassee,” He hiccupped. “P-please.”
I rolled my eyes, as his eyelids started to droop, and he started passing out. I grabbed him, and carried him to the bedroom, quickly undressing him, and tucking him in, before stripping to my boxers, and climbing in next to him. I stroked his cheek gently, and kissed his forehead.
“You’re forgiven,” I whispered, kissing his forehead twice more. “You’re forgiven.”
xXx
“Ungh,” I moaned, throwing up more, and clutching my stomach. I heard Frank stir, and then groan himself. He muttered something, before calling my name out, just as I lurched forward, beginning to throw up more.
I think he took the hint, cause five minutes later, he came him, and started trying to comfort and calm me, telling me it would be okay, and to get it all out. Once I finally felt somewhat reasonable, I sat against the bathroom wall, and stared at him.
He tried avoiding my stare, waiting for me to say something. It didn’t work. I still stared, and I didn’t say anything. “Soooo…” He trailed off. I still continued to just stare, unblinkingly.
“Okay,” He took a deep breath. “Gee, I’m sorry. It was just a suggestion I thought maybe we could discuss. I was never going to force you, or purposely hurt you. All I wanted was for you to know our options. Because, to be honest, I don’t know if I can be a parent,” He explained.
“You think I can?” I whispered finally. “But I’m willing to try Frankie. And if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can make it.”
“I do.” He said. “Want to. I just don’t think I’ll be a good dad…” I smiled, and inched over to him, resting my head on his shoulder, listening to him talk, the vibrations of his voice bouncing off his shoulder. “I want it to have a good family life, you know, a dog, a nice house with a picket fence surrounding the yard, neighbors that she hangs out with everyday in the summer…not…two dads working full time jobs to pay the bills, and an apartment to live in.”
“But we’ll love it just as much, and we’ll make sure Dillon knows it,” I reply. He looks down at me, confusion etched in his face.
“Who’s Dillon?” I blush, and look down at my stomach.
“Bert temporarily named the baby Dillon,” I answered, and he grinned.
“Dillon Iero-Way…” He trailed off. “If you’ll let me be a part of it.” I looked up at him, almost shocked, and pounced, kissing his lips hard. He grinned into his, sliding his tongue along my bottom lip. I let him in, and he battle for dominance, quickly winning over, and sending us to the floor.
He gritted his teethe as he tore my shirt off, and kissed down my neck. “There’s something about the bathrooms and our inability to keep it in our pants…”