Page 35 of Expecting an Argument
“Here,” I said as I slammed the shake onto the countertop. “Won’t taste great, but it’ll keep you from ever going toDeathland Hospital again.”
She finished her sip of water before popping the cap off the shake cup. “What about when I give birth?”
I scoffed. “You aren’t giving birth there. It’s horrible.”
“I was born there.”
I gripped the edge of the counter and swallowed a comment I just knew she would take the wrong way. “You’re giving birth in the city so Dr. Ornelas can do a scheduled c-section.”
She furrowed her brows. “Scheduled c-section?”
I might have taken her more seriously if she didn’t have remnants of the protein shake on her upper lip, but I tried to stay calm nonetheless. “Yes. Had you listened at your first doctor’s appointment, you would have heard Dr. Ornelas explain that caesarean deliveries are the safest way to give birth to twins.”
“But vaginal deliveries are cheaper!”
I pushed myself off the counter and raked my hands through my hair. Why the fuck did she care about the cost? Was she trying to spite me? At the expense of the babies?
She was willing to risk bleeding out during delivery over something as frivolous as money?
I dragged my hands down my face and let out a breath. “Fine. You want to save money so badly?” I turned and gestured to the large bay window that overlooked the pasture. “I’ll call the ranch hands and get a set of chains. They’ll pull the babies out like it’s just another day in calving season!”
I caught a projectile in the corner of my vision and ducked. The protein shake hit the cabinet behind my head and exploded all over the kitchen.
I whipped around. “What the hell, Adams?”
Olivia jumped off her stool. “I’ve always just been a damn cow to you, haven’t I? Graduation was one thing, but even when I’m carrying your babies you still—!”
“What thehellare you talking about?” I gestured to the remnants of the protein shake grenade that dripped down the cabinets. “Have you gone insane?”
“You’re treating me like an animal!” she yelled. “Between the scheduled meals and the water—”
“You won’t take care of yourself!”
“YOU WON’T TALK TO ME!” she screamed. Her eyes turned glassy and her chest started to heave. “I’ve lived in your house for three weeks and you still won’t speak to me like…like I’m a person. You ignore me like I’m…I’m just another weird piece of furniture in this God-forsaken manor! You’ve always acted like I’m beneath you, but now—”
“When have I ever acted like you’re beneath me, Adams?” I challenged. “Have you considered that I don’t talk to you because when I do—”
“You treat me like I’m the biggest mistake of your life!” A tear rolled down her face. Then another. “WhenI’msitting here, having lost everything! I lost my job, my car, my peace…the life that Iworkedfor is gone and it all happened because you came back into the picture…and…and…”
She tightened her fists and intensified her glare. “This…this pregnancy is a prison sentence…and my only crime wasyou!”
Her rant broke down into incoherent sobbing. Her whole face turned red before she covered it with her hoodie sleeves and sank to the floor.
A fucking prison sentence.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the kitchen before anything else could explode. My feet took me in any direction that would get me away from her fucking sobbing. I found myself at the bar in the media room, gripping the edge of the marble counter like I was about to crack it. Whatever movie was playing on the TV was nothing more than garbled noise in my ears.
Hissing out a breath, I grabbed the nearest bottle and took a pull. My face twisted in a grimace as the familiar taste slid down my throat—one of Dad’s old bottles of bourbon.
I abandoned the bottle on the counter and retreated to the center of the room. I sank onto the center cushion of the leather couch and let my head fall into my hands.
I massaged my temples as I listened to whatever was happening in the movie.
“Wowie, Mom!”cried a boy with an obnoxiously high-pitched voice.“How did Santa know I wanted the Cowboy Jones quick-draw pistol set?”
“Well, Timmy, Santa is Father Christmas,”cooed a woman with a mid-Atlantic accent,“and Father always knows best.”
I picked up the nearest object—a plate—and threw it at the TV. The plate shattered into bits against the screen, sendingbits of porcelain and cookie crumbs to the floor. The screen was covered in black rectangles, but the speakers were still perfect.
