Page 108 of Embracing the Beat
WEST
Following the court order to the minute detail, I show up to an approved lab feeling like a bigger ass than before. This is what they do with deadbeat dads. This is unnecessary. Michaela could have asked—
When? Before or after you all but called her a whore?
After my blood is drawn and stored, the woman walks with me toward the exit.
“Should take about two weeks.”
“That fast? The baby isn’t even born yet.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can filter them.
“We run these tests all the time,” she tells me. “Even without the baby.”
“Is it safe?” I don’t want either Michaela or our child to be in jeopardy to prove my dumb ass wrong.
Hypocrite. I wince.
“Oh yeah. It’s called non-invasive prenatal paternity. We take your sample and one from the mother and compare fetal cells in the mother’s bloodstream with the two samples. More than 99 percent accurate.”
I don’t care about whether the test is accurate. Because I know.
Only no one cares.
Not anymore.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Sure,” she says before calling the next name on her list.
I try to ignore how the waiting room is full of men who look like me and shrug on my jacket before stepping outside.
Fall is coming early to Philadelphia—either that or something else leaves me in a constant state of chill.
“West!” That voice is familiar, and I hunch my shoulders, unsure of how this conversation will go. “Weston James Abbott!” Kelly calls across the parking lot and hurries toward the entrance.
“H-hi, Kelly.” I can barely speak over the lump in my throat, and I cough several times to clear it.
“Oh, honey, are you sick?”
Honey?
What the hell did Sawyer tell them?
“Sick?” I ask her instead.
“You haven’t been returning my calls, and you’re here.” She motions to the medical center we’re standing in front of. “The cough.”
“No, I’m not sick,” I tell her. Not physically, at least. Does heart sick count?
“Good. Now, come sit with me and tell me why you haven’t returned my calls.” She drags me to a bench and sits, pulling me next to her.
Guilt gnaws at my stomach. It doesn’t help that Michaela’s eyes are carbon copies of Kelly’s and intensify the sensation.
“You probably have things to do—”
“Nonsense,” she interrupts. “I’m here for some bloodwork for a physical but on a walk-in basis. Spill the beans.”
“I…” God, this is awkward. I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want to see the warmth on her face replaced by the cold hatred I saw on Sawyer’s the last time I saw him. “Why are you being nice to me?”
