Accidentally Expecting. Michelle Celmer

looking across the street…oh, damn, I think I’ve been discovered.”

      “Serves you right,” Miranda said, not opening her eyes. “That’s what you get for being nosy.”

      “I’m not nosy. I’m observant. And let’s not forget whose window I’m looking out of. He’ll probably just assume it’s you.”

      Swell. Just what she needed, her new neighbors thinking she was a snoop.

      “He’s walking back to his car…no wait, he walked past it, and he’s crossing the street. He’s coming this way.”

      “That’s not funny,” Miranda said.

      “I’m not trying to be funny. He’s really crossing the street. And, oh my God, he is a hunk. Older than I thought, though. More like his midthirties.”

      A teeny, tiny alarm rang in her head. Tall, mid-thirties, a hunk.

      No way.

      “Now he’s walking up your driveway.”

      The alarm grew louder, or was it just a ringing in her ears? She was starting to feel light-headed. “I’m not buying it, Lianne.”

      “He’s walking up the steps to the porch…”

      Sure he was.

      Lianne was just messing with her head. She liked to do that.

      “…stopping to look at the flowers in the urn. Picking one of the flowers! Boy does this guy have nerve.”

      She would drag this out as long as humanly possible.

      “Stepping up to the door…”

      The doorbell rang.

      Miranda’s eyes flew open.

      Lianne was looking at her. “Well? Aren’t you going to get it?”

      Miranda looked down at her attire. “I’m in my pajamas. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”

      “Okay,” Lianne, said with a sigh, rising from the couch. “I’ll get it.”

      As she walked to the front door, Miranda’s nausea returned full force. He was probably just coming by to use the phone, or borrow sugar. She was sure she didn’t know him.

      As Lianne reached for the doorknob Miranda squeezed her eyes shut, as if not seeing it wouldn’t make it real. But she had a bad feeling about this.

      The bile was rising again. Working it’s way up, burning a path through the lining of her throat.

      She heard the door open, heard a deep voice. His voice.

      “I’m looking for Miranda Reed,” it said.

      “Can I tell her who you might be?” Lianne asked, her voice stern, yet curious.

      “Tell her it’s Zack.”

      Zack had heard of people turning green, but always assumed it was a figure of speech.

      It wasn’t.

      When he walked into Miranda’s condo and saw her sitting there, she looked like the creature from the green lagoon.

      It was the first time anyone had looked at him, then promptly run to the bathroom to toss their cookies.

      “Feeling better now?” he asked from the bathroom doorway.

      Miranda groaned.

      She half sat, half sprawled on the tile floor wearing pink silk pajamas, her arms draped over the bowl. Her long, dark hair was pulled back but a few wispy strands stuck to her forehead and cheek. “Someone kill me now.”

      “Is there anything I can get you?”

      She moaned and laid her head on her arm. “Have you got a gun?”

      That one made him smile. “I was thinking more along the lines of a damp cloth or a glass of water.”

      She gazed up at him, her eyes watery and bloodshot. “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

      “What am I thinking?”

      “You’re looking at me now, remembering when you proposed, and saying to yourself, thank God she said no.”

      She couldn’t be more wrong. “Why would I be thinking that?”

      “I’ve seen my reflection in the toilet bowl. You can’t tell me I don’t look like a beast.”

      “I’ve never met anyone who looks good hanging over a toilet being sick. I promise not to hold it against you.”

      “What happened to Lianne?”

      “She left. She wants you to call her when you’re feeling better.”

      Miranda just bet she did. She had to be going nuts over there wondering what the heck was going on. “Does she know who you are?”

      “I told her I’m a friend of yours from Chicago.”

      “Yep, she knows.”

      “What does she know exactly?”

      “That you’re the baby’s father. She just doesn’t know who you are. At least, I hope she doesn’t.” She sat up and took a few shallow breaths. “I think I’m feeling better now.”

      “You ready to get up?”

      “I think so.”

      He stepped into the bathroom and held out a hand to give her a boost from the floor. She grabbed it and rose slowly to her feet. She wavered a second, gripping his fingers. “Where do you want to go?” he asked.

      “The recliner.”

      With a hand resting on her lower back for stability, he walked her out to the chair. She sat down, leaned back and closed her eyes. She wasn’t looking so green any longer. It was the first time he’d seen her with no makeup, and he sort of liked her without it. She looked softer. And younger. Maybe even a little bit vulnerable.

      And he intended to take care of her. This was exactly what he’d meant when he told her he wanted to be involved. He wanted to be a part of the entire process. Even the unpleasant parts.

      He noticed her cup on the table. “Would you like more tea?”

      “You don’t have to take care of me.”

      “I know I don’t.”

      For a second he thought she might argue, then she must have decided she didn’t have the energy. “Tea would be great. With a teaspoon of honey.” Eyes still closed, she gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “It’s in the cabinet above the coffeemaker.”

      He grabbed her cup from the table. “I’ll find it.”

      Like the rest of the condo, the kitchen was very clean and organized. That was one thing they obviously had in common. Clutter drove him nuts. His mother never had time for housework. She’d worked long hours, and when she finally did get home, cooking and cleaning were pretty low on her list of priorities.

      She would open a bottle of wine, park herself in front of the television and chain-smoke until his father got home. How much she drank depended on how late he was out. He had a lot of evening “meetings” and often didn’t breeze in until after midnight.

      Sometimes it was one bottle, other nights two. On a good night, she would pass out before his father returned, sparing Zack and his younger brother Richard from being jolted awake to the sound of raised voices. To hear his mother’s slurred accusations, and his father’s halfhearted, lame excuses.

      On a bad night, the police got involved.

      His mother’s second and third marriages hadn’t been much better.

      He put the kettle on, dumped out the stale tea and fixed her a fresh