Don't Get Comfortable

Don't Get Comfortable
ROMANY

I stare at the doll until dusk settles along my back and the cold breeze of the Pacific floats the bottom of my open legged, knee length shorts up toward my thighs.
Something in the air feels different. Feels... electric. And for the next few minutes that I stand frozen on my porch, placing a hand over my gently swollen abdomen, thoughts of Mickey plague my mind.
He always said he wanted me to have his heir. He promised he would leave everything behind for me if I wanted. Well... he did exactly that, I suppose. But it was not what I wanted.
I can almost hear him calling me his 'Doll', can almost hear him telling me he's sorry for not being here. Sorry for leaving me alone.
But such thoughts are ridiculous. He's gone, Ro. Gone. He and Alex are both... gone.
And that doll has no fucking business sitting on my swing.
Wandering over to it, I shoot a sharp glance around the small garden and then down toward the beach. I don't know what the fuck I expect to find, a kid maybe? A lost little girl wondering where she may have lost her toy? Who knows?
My stomach growls and I snatch the damn thing up by the arm then stalk toward the edge of my lawn, not toward the stairs but toward the scattering of rocks. Toward the cliff. Scanning the beach one last time for the owner of this orphaned doll, I make to throw it three stories down toward its doom, but... my hand refuses to release the damn thing.
"Son-of-a-bitch!" I scream, my voice echoing over the mostly barren sands.
I can't do it. I can't let the little orphan go.
She's like me. Alone. She even looks like me. With her long curly black hair and lagoon colored eyes.
Hiking my grocery bag up on my shoulder, I hold the doll in front of me and say, "I'm not going to name you, so don't get comfortable. And I'm pregnant with a boy so I doubt you'll be making many friends while you're here. But if you're quiet and don't irritate me, I guess you can stay until your owner comes to claim you."
I've fucking lost my mind.
With a roll of my eyes, I draw the pretty little orphan into my arms and race back toward the door, stepping inside and leaning my back on the door as it closes behind me.
One breath passes. Then two.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
I begin to cry.
Great big crocodile tears escape my eyes as I slide down to the floor with the damned orphaned doll clutched close to my chest, but I don't sob. I don't make a sound, because I know the moment I give in, the moment I let the sadness overwhelm me, even a little bit, my tears will never stop flowing.
Because my baby's father might just be dead.
I figured out that I was pregnant about three months ago while I was still in captivity. I started feeling nauseous and craving shit I didn't like to eat... shit like grapefruit. A fruit that I have hated since the dawn of Stella. Suddenly, I began to demand that godawful citrus fruit every morning. Sliced in half and covered in salt. It got to a point where if Tiny or Damien did not deliver it to me like clockwork each new day by seven a.m., I'd become a raging bitch by mid-morning and the entire house and half of the neighborhood would have suffered my wrath.
Pregnant tantrums ain't no joke.
At first, I didn't connect it to anything other than my solitude... but then, I missed my first period and I knew. I just... knew.
It was right then that I decided I was going to get away from them, from everyone that wasn't Mickey or Alex, and I kept my newfound knowledge to myself. Despite the fact that either one of them, Damien or Thaddeus, could be the father. I wanted to leave. I wanted to be alone.
It wasn't that hard to hide the truth from either of them, because I hadn't let them touch me even once since the explosion. Neither of them. Their withdrawal of me is ultimately what led to their failure, because when I decided to leave, all it took was the slight curl of my finger and a couple of spiked drinks - and bam - I was out the door and on a flight to California with Ruiz.
Sometimes, I hate both of them for saving me. Sometimes, I wish they had left me in that house. But I know it's just grief. Grief that I will deal with on my own. Grief that might have become something to wallow in if I hadn't actually been pregnant. But... I am pregnant, so... I carry on.
I started seeing a doctor here on Catalina Island last month, and I'm due for my next appointment tomorrow afternoon. That is when Doctor Saul will reveal the baby's sex to me. Even though I already know it's a boy. I can just tell. I can just... feel it. You would think that same feeling would tell me who the father is, but... it doesn't. That I won't know until he is born. And even then... I might not. Because given my extraordinary circumstances, I have decided not to find out.
Sure, maybe it's wrong of me to be that way, but I could honestly give a lesser fuck about any sort of moral hierarchy right now. Maybe I'll change my mind when my baby is born. Maybe I won't. For now, I simply live, for the now. As if that even makes sense.
Shaking off those thoughts, I dry my tears and push up from the floor, depositing my groceries on the kitchen island. Time to set about making my dinner, maybe watch a rom-com on t.v. and then get some sleep.
Propping the little orphan up against my sugar bowl so that she can watch me work, I step toward the fridge and open the door to retrieve a stick of butter and then... I freeze.
"What in the name of all that is holy... is this?"