Fucking Early

Grey & Maggie, the mornig after their welcome home dinner. 

**************

It was fucking early.  Grey had an almost animalistic impulse to throw his phone at the wall when the chipper little alarm beeped and vibrated, cajoling him and commanding him to wake the fuck up.

It took an inordinate amount of time to figure out where the fuck he was and why the Christ he was waking up so goddamn early.  The bed was comfortable but not his own.  The hour was unholy. 

Oh yeah.  It was a Monday morning, he was in the guest house (in a guest bedroom in the guest house) and he had set his alarm in order to roll out of bed and drive his fucking wife to class.  He pawed at the motherfucking phone, hit some button or other, causing it to go into ‘snooze’ mode, and rolled over onto his stomach.  Maybe if he tried real hard he could make the whole nightmare go the fuck away.

It was the second goddamn morning in a row that involved being rudely awakened by a loud, obnoxious phone.  For her.

The courtesy wake-up call at the resort had sounded like a fucking claxon horn that Sunday morning.  He’d felt sure his head would split in two, and was glad, for the sake of the employee on the other end of the line, that it had been Maggie, and not him, that had answered and quickly thanked them and hung the receiver back in its cradle as gently and quietly as was humanly possible.  Nevertheless he’d heard every fucking miniscule sound like tiny but powerful jackhammers on his skull.

He’d covered his face with his hands and his eyes had been sore.  Sore eyes, never a fun way to start the day.  And he’d swallowed but his tongue felt like sandpaper and his throat seemed to be swollen nearly shut. 

Then he’d realized where he was.  As he listened to her quietly thanking the concierge desk for the call, quietly hanging up the phone, and oh-so-gently shifting on the enormous bed next to him, he realized what had happened.  Oh fuck my life.

And he felt nauseated.

“Do you need to throw up?”  He’d asked her, not even recognizing the rough, gravelly sound of his own voice.

“No, not right now.”  She’d answered in a small, deliberately soothing voice.

Good.  “Ok.”  He’d said and took just a small breath, because he knew from experience that a deep breath would trigger a chain reaction that was as unstoppable as it was unpleasant.  He’d laid on the bed, trying to focus on easy, shallow breaths, trying to quell the nausea enough to risk moving, and trying not to allow graphic flashes of images from the night before to play themselves out in his mind’s eye.

He groaned, losing the battle with those flashes of memory.  What the fuck had he done?  Jesus Christ.  He knew he couldn’t open his eyes just yet, knew he needed to stay behind the pressing darkness his shaking hands provided, but he wondered how she looked.  If he’d hurt her too badly.  This wasn’t helping the nausea.

“Do you need to?”  She inquired gently.

“Yup.”

He’d made it to the bathroom and managed to close the door before puking his guts out.  When he’d showered and finally emerged quite some time later she had a red drink waiting for him.

He accepted it with a question all over his face. 

“Hair of the dog?”  She said, sounding unsure of the colloquialism.

He grimaced and tested the smell of the tomato juice against his tender senses.  It didn’t immediately make his gut roil so he held his breath and swallowed a gulp.

“Thank you.”  He’d wondered how his eighteen year old innocent Catholic bride knew about home remedies for hangovers.  But, he supposed, she worked in a restaurant, and her father had ordered a goddamn tequila drink at brunch, so maybe Maggie Ramirez knew a thing or two about hungover men.

“De nada.”  She’d replied with a tentative smile.

He’d wanted to smile in return—he liked it when she sprinkled Spanish into conversation—but when he looked at her he’d felt such a powerful wave of guilt and shame that all he’d managed to do was grunt and glower.  That was the perfect opportunity.  Right then.  To apologize.  But he’d chickened out.  And then room service had arrived with the breakfast she’d ordered them, and she’d succumbed to a morning sickness she’d been holding at bay, and then they’d needed to get ready for checkout and, ugh.

Remembering the previous morning made Grey doubly irritable.  He growled a string of cruses into the pillow and resented his state of consciousness.

Laying on his front made his morning erection feel particularly conspicuous.

And what the fuck had been up with her last night anyway?

Grey pressed his eyes closed and tried not to think about her.  He wanted to go back to sleep.  He wanted to pretend he wasn’t in the guest cottage, that he wasn’t married, that none of it had ever, ever happened.

When he heard her retching he spun over and sat up.  Should he go to her?  He looked at his lap.  Christ.  There wasn’t much that could be done about that.  It would take care of itself before long, but, should he walk out there with this monster?  Fuck.

And really?  What was there to do?  How could he help? It’s not like he could help her vomit.  He supposed he could hold her hair back or some shit.  Or offer moral support?

He had every instinct to pull a pillow over his head and ignore it. 

But she retched again, more violently, and with a heavy sigh he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.  He grabbed his phone, knowing it was going to buzz and chirp to life again in a few minutes, and padded to the door. 

He was only semi-erect now, which was the worst, because he wouldn’t be able to flip it up into the waistband of his pajama pants, but it certainly wasn’t discreet yet either.  Whatever.  He doubted she’d be in any condition to spare him a glance, let alone notice his lingering tumescence.  Besides, few things kill an erection faster than the sounds and sights and smells of someone being ill.

He didn’t precisely hurry, but he got to the bathroom fairly quickly considering how bleary eyed and exhausted he felt.  He reached for the handle and crashed into the door when he discovered she’d locked it.

Oh. 

Ow.

“Hello?”  He heard her ask weakly from inside the bathroom.

Grey blinked.  “Hello.”  He answered, and frowned at the door.

“I’m sorry, I, um, I think I’ll be a little longer.”  She said, sounding terribly embarrassed.

She thought he needed to use the bathroom.  Grey felt itchy all over.  “No—“

“What?”

Fuck.  “No, I don’t need, I wanted to see if you, Are you all right?”  He clenched his fists.  No, moron, she isn’t alright, she’s puking her guts out because you knocked her up, you fucking asshole.

“Um. Yeah.  Just.”  He heard her sigh.  “Morning, you know.” Her voice was wavering and uneven.

He swallowed.  “Can I?  Is there anything I can do?”

She was quiet for a moment.  “I don’t think so.”  She answered carefully.

“I mean, do you want me to come in?”

“No!”  She was quick to answer.

He nodded at the door.  No. He supposed he wouldn’t want someone watching him vomit either.  But weren’t guys supposed to hold a girl’s hair back?  Wasn’t that something that was done?  Maybe that’s only when they’re stumbling, fall-down drunk?  He’d done that before and those girls had always treated him like he was their fucking hero for it, like he was a prince for getting them stupid drunk and then bothering to keep their hair away from their disgusting sick.

“Ok.”  He said lamely, because he really didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you. Though.”

“No problem.”

They were both quiet.  He wondered if she was done.  He wondered what he should do with himself.

“D’you want breakfast?”

She retched loudly. 

Ok.  No breakfast probably.  Still.  Maybe some toast?  He’d make toast.  He could manage that.  And probably she’d want a glass of water.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water.”  He told the door, when the sounds of her heaving had settled down.  He thought he heard her sob softly and something empathetic twisted in his chest.  It must suck having to be sick so much.  He hated throwing up, and found it difficult to imagine having to put up with it the way a pregnant woman had to do.

“Thank you.”  She said, sounding very tired.

“Ok.”  He said, hesitating.  “Be right back.”

“Ok.”  Came the meek reply.

Ok. 

He made himself step away from the bathroom door and down the hall toward the kitchen.  He wanted coffee.  But. Whatever.  The smell of it had made her particularly nauseated the previous morning, the last day of the honeymoon, so maybe he’d better not.  He’d live without it. 

Moving fairly quickly for someone unaccustomed to getting up before ten AM, Grey pulled bread from the bread drawer and then lifted a roll-away style cupboard to reveal several high-end Calder countertop appliances hidden away from view.  He gazed longingly at the coffee maker before pushing aside the blender and pulling out a very attractive and hardly-used toaster.  He plugged it in under the top cabinets and pressed the lever down, deciding on a nice, neutral, medium setting for the toast.

He turned and made a mental note to thank his mother for grocery shopping for them, stocking the normally bare-bones kitchen with things like bread and milk and fruit and all that other bullshit that makes a place a home. 

He grabbed a couple tall glasses and filled them with ice, and then waited rather impatiently as the water dispenser slowly filled one and then the other.  Filling the second one had taken longer because she’d flushed the toilet halfway through the task, and the drop in water pressure made what was already a meager stream of water even more pitiful.  Maybe he’d upgrade the fridge.  This was a nice model but it was more than five years old and one of the newer lines featured a water dispenser with a lot more oomph.

“Hi.”

He startled, sloshing a decent amount of icewater onto his hand and down the front of the fridge.

“Shit.”

“Sorry.”

“No, not your fault, I’m an idiot.”  He put the dripping glass down on the counter and reached for the dish towel still hanging on the stove handle where he’d left it the night before, when the toaster popped.  “Shit.”  He said quietly.  He hastily sopped up the water on the fridge and from the floor beneath it before opening it up and, after searching for a moment, emerged with the heart healthy butter spread his mother had purchased.

His phone jumped to life in his pajama pants and he reacted as if it had electrified him. “Shit!”  He scrambled to press a button through his pants, wanting to shut the thing up, and succeeded in mashing it into submission after a half a moment of scrabbling.

He flipped the towel onto his shoulder as he moved toward the toaster, opening the silverware drawer on the way and withdrawing a butter knife.  “Shit.”  He said and turned back around, backtracking to where he’d left both glasses of water. 

He picked up the un-spilled one and carefully walked it over to where she’d settled in at the kitchen island.

“Thank you.”  She smiled cautiously.

He looked her in the eyes for the first time that morning and the frantic energy from his rushing around trying to be useful seemed to slow to a dead stop.  And he was staring at her.  Across the kitchen island.  Staring at her big brown eyes.

“Good morning.”  She said quietly.

“Morning.”  He mumbled in response. 

She didn’t look too bad for someone who’d been throwing up a few minutes before.  Her hair was a little wild maybe, and there were darker circles under her eyes, and she was a bit drained of color, but he thought she looked pretty good, considering.

He wondered if she’d slept well.  It was a new place and all.  And it had been one heck of an evening over at his folks’.  And she’d been all weird and strange before bed, standing in the livingroom like a ghost or something.

He hadn’t slept well.  Despite being exhausted and having a good amount of liquor in him, he’d tossed and turned and woken up frequently.  He’d heard her running the shower around midnight.  He’d had the strangest urge to get up and join her.  When they’d dated he’d enjoyed showering with her very much.  They’d done that here, it occurred to him, in the guesthouse.  And had a bath together too.  Shit.  Did she remember that? 

“Toast?” He cleared his throat.  It served absolutely no purpose to let his mind wander to images of her soapy, wet body.

She crinkled her eyebrows.  “I’m not sure.”

Yeah.  He figured as much.  “Shouldn’t you try to eat something?”  How the fuck did fetuses survive this stage of pregnancy?  How did the women? 

He remembered his mother had been pretty fucking miserable when she was carrying Viola.  He couldn’t remember the other two pregnancies all that clearly, but he’d been about eight or so when she was pregnant with Vi and she’d spent so many days sicker than he’d ever seen her.  He’d decided that babies were awful things that happened to mothers, and no matter how Jonah’d tried to convince him otherwise, he held that unswerving belief right up until he saw his baby sister in the hospital.  Only then had he understood why people endured the misery of pregnancy.

Of course his mother had almost died; he wouldn’t know or understand that until much later.  Sometimes he wondered if he’d have liked Viola at all if their mother hadn’t survived the delivery.  He didn’t care to think about it.

“I can try.” 

Her voice snapped him out of his memory and he looked at her sharply.  “Have you seen a doctor?”  he demanded.

She blinked, obviously thrown by the non-sequitor.  “Yes.”

“Because this doesn’t seem normal.”  His tone was far more combative than was necessary, but he didn’t seem to have control over that at present.

“You’re an expert on pregnancy?” she challenged, her own tone mirroring his, going from polite and perplexed to ready-for-a-fight in the space of a couple heartbeats.

“How the fuck are you supposed to get any nutrition if you can’t keep anything down?”  He was raising his voice unnecessarily.  “Your body can’t keep running on empty for fuck’s sake—you’re going to get de-hydrated and fuck knows what else.”

She squinted at him.  “I can take care of myself, thanks, I’ve been doing it fine since this started.”

“I’m taking you to the doctor.”  He declared dismissively.

“No, you’re taking me to class.”  She answered, heated.

“Fuck that—“

“I already have an OB, Ok?”

“Who?”

“What do you care who?  I have one.  I go to all the appointments.  I know what I’m doing.”

Grey couldn’t be sure why he was so furious in that moment, but he was, he was boiling.  “Some bullshit Mexican quack?  No.  I’m taking you to Sam Bennett.  There’s no way, no fucking way that all this is normal.  You look malnourished, and I’m not going to wait until you collapse to fix this problem.”

Her mouth fell open and he thought she might have made a hissing sound.  She looked angry enough to slap him.  “I’m going to call someone else to drive me.”  She said and stood.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m driving you.”

“Don’t you ever, ever tell me to shut up!”  She leveled in a deadly voice.

He swallowed. Fuck.  “Just sit down and have some breakfast, alright?”  He’d meant to apologize, to sound conciliatory, but he hadn’t managed that.

She glared at him.  “No, thank you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you need to eat.”

“I’m not going to eat right now.”  She countered, her pitch rising steadily.

“What the fuck do you want? I’ll make you whatever the fuck you fucking want alright?”  He was shouting.

“I want you to stop trying to be a controlling asshole!”  She shrieked, and his mouth fell open.

Then her eyes got wide and she flew from the kitchen toward the bathroom again.  He heard the hasty clatter of the toilet seat slamming up and heard her wretch loudly before she managed to get the door shut.

She’d called him an ‘asshole’.  Wow.  He must have really pushed her buttons.  He’d never heard her say that word.  She’d called him a bastard before.  And she’d said some mildly offensive thing is Spanish too, when he’d broken up with her, but ‘asshole’, as tame as it was for most people, was a pretty big step for Maggie.  Great.  They’d been married just over a week and he’d already driven her to profanity.

He wondered what he’d have to do to get her to say ‘fuck’.

“Fuck.”  He muttered to the kitchen at large.  What the fuck had just happened?