She slid the sonogram picture across the table to me and my eyes widened as I gazed upon the baby. At the top of the photos edge it read: Baby Girl Swan.
The three dimensional image showed every detail of her tiny face.
She had my lips.
“I’m not asking for anything, Edward. I just had to find you and let you know, that way you could decide whether or not you wanted to be in her life.”
“Do you need money?” I asked, still in shock and awe at the photo in my hands.
“That’s not why I’m here!” she yelled across the table, her hands slamming against the wooden table top. My eyes snapped to her and then looked around the room to the gawkers. She shook her head and lowered her voice. “I don’t need your fucking money, Edward. Are you even listening to me?”
“I… what do you want then?”
She huffed and shook her head before taking off on a rant. “You weren’t fucking listening. I don’t want anything from you. I can do this on my own. I’m just here, with an olive branch, giving you a choice to be in her life or not. It took a fucking lot to track you down. You didn’t leave me a name, or a number, nothing! I saw your picture on a magazine, that’s how I found you! You probably didn’t give me a second thought when you walked out my door. I know I’m just a fucking one night stand to you, you probably have them a lot, and you couldn’t care less about me. But I’m here for her, to try and give my daughter the opportunity to know her father.”
I flinched from her words, but was still too stunned to speak. I had no idea what to say. Less than two hours ago I was a single guy, running a growing company, with no children. Now I was… lost. A baby? A baby with a woman I didn’t even know? Did I want to get to know her? I knew the answer to that one, because I’d thought of no other woman but her for the past six months.
She stood from the booth, tired of my silence, the movement awkward due to the swell of her stomach. “Here’s my card,” she said, flicking the small piece of cardboard at me. I picked it up and read the small print; Isabella Swan, Editor, Chicago Tribune. “Call me if you want, don’t call me, I don’t really fucking care at this point.”
She threw her coat on and grabbed her purse. “Merry Christmas, Edward,” she said as she walked away from me and out the door.
Like a fucking moron, I just stared after her. I sat in the booth for almost an hour looking at the picture in my hand when my phone buzzed, calling me back to my reality. I was late for an appointment with a manager from one of our contracts.
Throwing a fifty on the table I grabbed my coat and the picture and left, walking the opposite direction that she had.