Late Love Page 3

  “So, tell me again why Em isn’t here?” I call out to Stana as I attempt to organize her spice rack. Some would say this is a pointless exercise, but some would be wrong. Who knows, you could mix up curry powder and cinnamon, then what are you gonna do, have curry-flavored porridge? Exactly, my time is put to good use.

  I lift up a dark brown powder before dumping it into one of the labeled bottles I picked up along the way.

  “Her new flatmate is moving in today. She wanted to help but apparently the girl didn’t have keys yet, so Em decided to stay and help her out.”

  I nod, my attention still stuck on if I’ve just put the curry powder in the cinnamon box. Fuck. I sniff it, hoping to differentiate between the two.

  Curry powder! Fuck yes, I’m a spice genius.

  “I give up,” Owen says, walking out of Stana’s bedroom. He’s been helping build their new bed, but from the look on his face, it isn’t going too well.

  “It’s practically all in German. How is a bloke supposed to read all that?” He huffs, his usually tan face slightly flushed.

  “It’s Swedish,” I call from the kitchen, trying to swap the mixed-up labels.

  Owen’s attention turns toward me.

  “Uh, you’ve got something.” He motions to my nose. I attempt to see what he’s pointing out, but no one can actually see their nose.

  I look at him expectantly, waiting for a clue as to what he’s saying.

  Grinning, he walks over, and his thumb brushes across my nose, dark orange powder coating the back of it.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, feeling my ears heat at the action. Dumb, absolutely ridiculous, Lottie.

  I internally chastise myself for having a reaction to something so small. I pray he doesn’t notice because the last thing I need right now is getting tangled up in a friendship-to-romance gone wrong. It may have worked for Stana, but I’m not on that path.

  “I’m gonna check on Ali,” Stana says to us before clearing the room.

  “You know, they’re showing the first three Star Wars films this weekend at the theater near my house. Any interest?”

  Owen’s question catches me off guard. In the few weeks I’ve known him, we’ve had fun banter back and forth, strictly friendly, but aside from our movie run-in, there have been no solo hangouts.

  “I may not have seen those films before, but I’m guessing that will take at least six hours of my afternoon?”

  His shoulders shake. “It may or may not be longer than that.”

  I rub my hands together in an attempt to remove the excess powders on them. I’ll probably have an allergy attack on my way home tonight from all the shit flying up my nose in this kitchen.

  “I think six hours of my life might be too much of a commitment,” I reply. “But I reckon I could give you two.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  I smile and continue to place everything in order, sporadically having to redo Owen’s work, yet I can’t bring myself to care. A sense of comfortability overtakes our interactions as the hours slip by, neither of us seeming to mind.

  I leave Stana’s a few hours later, a small smile on my face that doesn’t want to leave. Despite the fact my stomach started feeling uneasy toward the end of the day, I can’t seem to stop smiling. It should worry me the comfort I find from spending time with Owen, the ease of our conversation. I’ve only been single again for less than two months, but if I’m honest with myself, my relationship with Beck began to break down months before that.

  I’m not one to stick my head in the sand and go off with the fairies, but I changed my entire life for a man and the thought that he could be unfaithful was just too horrible to imagine. So instead I spent six months in Edinburgh feeling utterly lonely and attempting to salvage something that belonged straight in the bin.

  It takes a lot to rattle me, but wow, did Beck manage it. He fucking shook my entire foundation, then tried to escape unscathed. I never understood the expression “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” until the moment my suspicions were confirmed. Some will call me a psycho, but I don’t really give a shit.

  I exit the Tube at Notting Hill and begin my final small walk home. I pass the pastel buildings as my feet move along the paved streets, weaving among tourists and locals alike. In all my time I’ve lived here, there has always been a mix of both. I don’t know if it’s the movie-like tranquility that comes from this neighborhood or the Portobello Market that features a range of baked goods, antiques, and artwork, but something draws people in.

  I’m about to pass my local chemist when I realize I’m out of shampoo, and if you’ve ever had bleach-blonde hair, then you know you don’t skimp on purple shampoo. One wrong product and I could be rocking yellow hair. Not a good look. Plus, I need to get something to settle my tummy as it’s been sensitive for a few days now. Coming down with something is not what I need right now.

  I enter the store and go straight for the shampoo, then quickly find the other items I need. I should probably have gone to my own work to pick up these things, but I’m too exhausted from today to walk the extra four hundred meters.

  It isn’t until I pass the tampons that my steps come to a screeching halt. My mind begins to race as I look at the sanitary products I haven’t actually needed for the past two months. I mean, it has to have been all the stress. I’ve never had a regular period and my birth control makes it infrequent. But coupled with the stomach aches and smell sensitivity, it gives me reason to pause.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I’m a pharmacist—it’s literally my job to pick up on this. Yet here I am, seven p.m. on a Saturday, questioning if the reason I’ve been so off kilter these past two months is because my cheating ex-boyfriend knocked me up and I’ve been too daft to notice it.

  Okay, there is a logical way to figure it all out.

  I walk two isles over to the pregnancy tests, then make sure to scan my surroundings before grabbing four, as if some alarm is going to go off with a big flashing arrow pointing my way just for touching the things.

  While paying for my supplies, I’m thankful that I don’t recognize the pharmacist behind the counter. I don’t miss the look he gives me as he scans each test. I ignore it, muttering thanks before shoving them into my bag and bolting.

  I race home as the night sky darkens, no longer taking the time to appreciate my neighborhood and all its beauty.

  “Shit. Motherfucking shit fuck,” I yell at the white stick. There is no way in hell this can possibly be happening to me. My hands shake as I put it on the sink, lined up next to three other identical tests. There is no denying what I’m seeing, yet my mind can’t seem to comprehend the drastic reality that is displayed in front of me.

  I’m pregnant.

  Twenty-five years old, single, and now a looming pregnancy I’m nowhere ready for. I haven’t once held a child. My life consists of my job and my friends—no real responsibilities. How the bloody hell do I fit a child into that mix? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’m not equipped for this.

  If I’m honest with myself, the signs have been here for the past few weeks, but I’ve been so desperate to be wrong that I ignored them all.

  “FUCK!” I scream into my little bathroom, deciding it’s better to let it all out in one yell than go off like a madwoman for hours and scare the neighbors.

  “How the hell did this happen?” I ask before wanting to whack myself.

  Of course, I know how it happened. A late night after too many tears and a bottle of whiskey. Beck was there and I was leaving Edinburgh and despite the burning anger I felt inside, I just wanted to feel loved. I think some small part of me was trying to hold onto something we once had, trying to search for the side of him I’d fallen in love with, not the one that crushed my heart. Of course, all I got out of the situation was regret and despair. Well, I guess now this too.

  Despite my unease over the whole situation, I pull myself off the bathroom floor, straighten my dress, and head back int
o my bedroom.

  I pull out my mobile and dial Beck’s number, something I never thought I’d have to do again. I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows digging into my knees as the phone continues to ring.

  And ring, and ring.

  Beck never picks up.

  I cancel my movie with Owen. I lie and tell him I have a stomach bug. He’s probably skeptical, but I don’t have the energy to care too much. Mostly, I’ve been centering my days around working and seeing the girls. I’ve been at Saint Street a few times in the past week since finding out, and things with Owen are luckily fine, him not bringing up our canceled plans.

  I know I need to get to a doctor’s office and confirm everything, but I’ve been a pharmacist long enough to know I’m definitely pregnant.

  After Beck never called me back, I held off, but I think this afternoon I’m just going to have to bite the bullet and try again.

  I’m halfway through breakfast with everyone at Saint Street when the smell of bacon sends me running to the loo.

  I empty my meal into the toilet, my heaving a recent occurrence that has come with my impending motherhood. Groaning, I rest my head against the cool bathroom tiles, giving myself a moment to catch my breath. Who knew that a bacon-and-egg roll would send me straight to the bowl of a loo?

  I give myself a few more seconds before standing, then turn on the water to slowly begin to piece myself together again. It would be an understatement that keeping this a secret from my friends is challenging. But the truth is, I’m just not ready to tell anyone. I don’t think I’ve even accepted it, to be fully honest.

  After rinsing out my mouth and fixing my makeup, I feel decent enough to face the music. Lord knows everyone probably thinks I’ve got some type of stomach issue, the amount of times I’ve run off to the bathroom recently. Good thing they all seem rather distracted by each other today.

  Finally back to my usual self—well, minus the child inside of me—I pull open the door of the Saint Street bathroom. I quickly draw back when I find Owen standing in the narrow hallway, his usually goof demeanor replaced with a flat expression.

  “You scared me, puppy.” I laugh, attempting to act casual by using his nickname.

  He smiles, and it’s small and says more than I care to admit. My defenses automatically go up.

  “I didn’t mean to loiter in the hallway. I just heard you getting sick and wanted to make sure you were okay.” His stare is piercing, my stomach hollowing out.

  “I’m okay. I guess I just ate something bad,” I lie.

  He nods. “I really don’t mean to pry, Lottie. Your life is none of my business, but if you need anything at all, I’m here.”

  I keep my mouth shut, my sudden anger toward him taking me aback. Does he know? How could he possibly?

  “I, uh—” I pause, unsure how to continue.

  He holds up his hand. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot at all. My mum used to get sick from the smell of bacon too when she had my brother. I was ten, so I remember is all.”

  I keep my mouth shut, unsure how to proceed. Unsure how to comprehend the fact that someone I’ve known less than two months is the first person to know about my pregnancy.

  “I’m sorry, this is probably highly inappropriate, but I just wanted you to know I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Clearly you’re keeping this to yourself for now, which of course is your right, and I’m probably overstepping every boundary ever created, but I’ve come to value you as a friend and I just wanted to let you know I’m here. That’s all. I’m rambling. But yeah, sorry. And if I’m totally off base, then consider me highly mortified and accept my apologies.” He looks around, seemingly uncomfortable with himself, unsure how to proceed. I can’t help but laugh. It just jumps out of my mouth, my hand instantly covering it. None of this is funny. But all things considered, it is partly comical that Owen, of all people, is the first to know. Jesus, maybe I’m also losing my mind.

  His expression is uncertain, my anger toward him suddenly gone.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh,” I reply. “I’m not sure what to say if I’m being honest. I don’t know too many men who are quite so perceptive.” I keep out the part where I assumed Owen would be the last of anyone in the group to guess what’s going on. He’s got that “beautiful blond idiot” look to him, which now that I say it, makes me feel like the idiot, and an asshole.

  He scratches his neck but continues to look at me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Ah, God, sorry. I feel like I’ve overstepped and now I’m saying sorry again.”

  “You’re fine,” I say, surprised I actually mean it. I’m not one to let strangers into my business, but there’s a comfort that comes from Owen. “I would usually say now is a good time for a drink, but I guess we both know I’m in no position to be doing that.”

  He laughs, seeming to loosen up a little bit.

  “We should probably get back to everyone,” I say. “But yeah, um, it would be great if you could keep this to yourself,” I throw in as I walk by him.

  “I won’t say a word.”

  I nod, my body shaking slightly. I dig my fingers into my bag and quickly exit the hallway, leaving Owen alone.

  Two days later I’m sitting alone in my flat, drinking water that I wish would magically turn into wine. After having to call in sick to work, I’m already dreading how the next seven months are going to play out. If my calculations are correct, and they have to be, I got pregnant in July and since it’s September, that means I’m two months along.

  My phone pings, causing my heart to stop.

  It could be Beck.

  Beck. The lying asshole I gave over two years of my life to, even moved to Edinburgh for, before finding out he had been cheating on me for over a year.

  Beck, who was the last person I slept with, the father of this little thing cooking inside of me.

  Also, the same man who has been avoiding my calls for the past two days. It could be that he’s still pissed that I sold his TV to pay for my “emotional damages” as I claimed at the time. Or the countless other items I tossed out our flat’s windows.

  One might have lingering guilt, even offer to pay for it in the long run, but not me. As far as I’m concerned, that fucker can rot in hell. Well, that was my thought process before all of this.

  Now I still want him to rot in hell, but I also need him to step up for our child.

  Ugh, even saying the words “our child” hurts my soul. I pray to the universe that he’s going to be a better father than he was a partner; otherwise, we’re both screwed.

  Letting out a breath, I place my water on the table and check my message.

  I try to blink away the frustration I feel when I see Stana’s name instead of my ex’s. He may be a cheating asshole, but not once over the past few days did I think he’d ignore my calls, ignore the fact we’re having a child together.

  It was never something I wanted to tell him over the phone, but after countless unanswered messages and straight-to-voicemail calls, I’d had enough. I told the daft prick I was pregnant, and he better call me back.

  That was over twenty-four hours ago. And if I know Beck, which I do, his mobile is never more than a meter away from him.

  “Lousy, no-good bastard,” I mutter as I get off the couch, deciding to call Stana later. Keeping this secret from my friends was never the goal, but as the hours pass me by, I can’t seem to get the guts to call them.

  I’ve never been a secretive person. Sure, I’m loyal as hell and would keep a secret for a mate, but keeping them from a mate, not my style. But I suppose I’ve never had something to really keep from them.

  I’ve lived a good life. Up until I was twenty-one, I lived with my parents here in London before they decided to move to France nearly four years ago. Their leaving didn’t come as a surprise to me. Like my mum’s brother, Stan’s dad, my parents could never sit still. I’m surprised they lasted in London as long as they did.

  Their departure left me wit
h my own flat in Notting Hill and a comfy pharmacy job down the road. I’ve never really known hardships like my friends. Ali and Em’s parents died years ago, Reeve’s dad was never in the picture, Owen’s dad died before he even knew him, and although Stana has both her parents, they could use a little assistance in the parenting department.

  But not me. My parents’ desire to leave London wasn’t to get away from me, just to begin a new adventure. I’ve never lacked in love or material things; my life has been relatively normal. That is, until now. Here I am, newly twenty-five and alone and pregnant.

  And no one knows, except me, Beck, and bloody Owen.

  My front-door buzzer goes off despite the fact I’m not expecting anyone.

  Who the hell is buzzing at this time?

  I peel myself away from the comfort of my couch, cringing slightly at the pajamas I’m still in.

  “Hello,” I call through the intercom.

  “Hi, it’s Owen.”

  I eye the speaker, as if he could possibly see my uncertainty.

  “Um, can I come in?” His voice breaks through my mind and I reluctantly press the buzzer and walk to my front door.

  After a few moments I pull the door open, Owen’s face greeting me.

  “Uh, hi?” I laugh, feeling awkward and unsure.

  “Do you mind if I come inside?” He lifts his shoulders and I notice the two full grocery bags in his hands. Uncertain how I can say no, I open the door wider, signaling him to enter.

  “Thanks,” he says as he walks into my home. It’s not a huge space. There’s a bathroom to the left of the front door, and my bedroom is off to the right. Both doors are closed and my small kitchen is straight ahead, open, looking into the living room.

  It doesn’t take Owen even a moment to get to the kitchen, where he places the two bags of stuff on the bench.

  “Uh, it’s not that I’m unhappy to see you, puppy. But what are you doing here?” No need to beat around the bush.

  Owen takes his attention off my modest living room. It could have a bit more character, but I’ve yet to take the time to furnish it more than the tan couches and TV. Lord knows it needs some love, but working and having a semblance of a social life take up most of my time. I can’t even imagine how it will be after the baby arrives.