Fragments

one shot: Friendship for Dummies

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Georgie! You can't fantasize about a baby that'll never be! You're just making yourself sadder and I can't stand to watch it anymore."

I was hurting him. "I'm sorry, Connor..."

"You're not the only one who's hurting, you know," he says softly.

I didn't even realize it because I was wallowing in self pity. Connor wanted kids too. How could I forget? He told me he wanted a little boy and that he would fall in love with the girl next door—just like us.

"I'm so selfish!" I cry. "Here I am, thinking about myself, and you're taking care of me. I know how much you wanted children and if you want to leave me and find a girl that is able to have kids, I won't blame you—"

"Georgie," he interrupts. "Stop talking nonsense. I'm not going to leave you just because we can't have children. We made a promise to each other, for better or for worse, remember? I'll settle to being an uncle."

I shake my head. "You shouldn't have to settle. You deserve better than this, than me."

He cups my face and stared into my eyes, his brown ones piercing into mine. "I'm not settling. You are the best I could ever get. Don't forget that, okay?"

I can feel my cheeks redden. "But—"

"Okay?" he repeats, except more forced.

"Okay. Now stop being so cheesy. It's not like you..."

He kisses the top of my forehead. "I have to go to work. Are you going to be alright at home?"

"I'm twenty-six, Connor. I think I can take care of myself."

He chuckles. "Just checking. I love you."

"I love you too. And tell our parents to stop coming over here and watching me like a prisoner."

Connor nods and disappears out the door. I sigh and get my spoon out of the sink and resume eating my frozen treat. After finishing it off, I go on Google and search if doctors could make mistakes about these things; after all, they were human. The websites and the personal stories people posted gave me hope. Maybe we could have a baby after all!

With a newfound energy, I hop up to the other bedroom upstairs—the one that was meant for our firstborn. I open the closet door and pull out a can of paint, a paint roller, and a paint tray. I cover the floor with outdated newspaper and fill the tray with paint. I plaster the once-bare walls in lilac colored paint. Paint fumes start to make my head pound, but I'm paying attention to that. All I could concentrate on was getting my little girl's room done.

Once there wasn't a spot on the wall covered in paint, I step back and admire my work. That is, until I actually saw it. The paint job was absolutely horrendous. The strokes weren't even and some places were darker than others. A kindergartener with finger paint could've done better than me. This is why I wasn't some sort of artist—I wasn't consistent or creative.

I let out a frustrated growl and bang my head against the wall. I quickly realize my mistake and jump back.

There's a Georgie shaped imprint on the wall.

Real smooth, Georgie.

I let out another yell and pull my hair. Another big mistake. There is now wet, purple paint in my blonde curls. This is going to be horrible to wash out.

I plop down onto the ground and start crying. Why can't I do anything right for once? I sigh heavily and get up to go wash myself off. But before I can do that, the doorbell rings. I'm not going to answer the door in my physical state. After about a thousand dings, I groan and get up to answer it. It's Connor.