OK, so this went from mini-series to full out story. The plot dragged me all the way to an inevitable conclusion, and here we are. Sorry Nolan fans. I'll miss him too. Remember, no one is the "bad guy" in my story, but that doesn't stop my characters from being complete assholes.

Panic Prone

The First Bump

"For English, say 2. For…"

"Two."

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

" TWO!"

"I'm sorry, I…"

"Two, you fucking robot CUNT!"

"Whoa, Bennett, be careful. If Scarlet goes around the daycare screaming 'cunt,' the soccer moms will start to hate us even more than they already do."

I ended the call and threw my cell onto the kitchen counter. Nolan urged a hot mug of black coffee into my hand. I took a swig and winced.

"She's still asleep, right?"

"Yes," Nolan sighed, handing me the hazelnut creamer.

I dumped a hefty portion into my mug and chugged. The bags beneath my eyes betrayed my exhaustion. I glanced at Nolan; seeing his equally baggy eyes calmed my anger. Over and over I reminded myself that I wasn't alone in my toils. Nolan was beside me, toiling just as hard. I sighed, kissed him, and reclaimed my cell. It was time to argue with the robot again.

"Give it a rest," Nolan suggested, pulling out the ingredients for omelets. "I'll call when I get back."

He was wearing his "good" clothes instead of his usual ratty mechanic attire. I remembered that he was going to his grandmother's funeral in an hour. I suddenly felt like the king of selfish assholes. I pocketed my cell and took over making breakfast. He sat at our two-person table, unfolding a newspaper, but I could tell by the wrinkle in his brow that he wasn't reading it.

"Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?" I poured a mix of egg, cheese, and bell pepper into a hot pan. It sizzled. "It's Saturday. My parents are home. I can leave Scarlet with them."

"No," Nolan asserted, shaking his head. "She needs one of us with her. A fever that high has to be scary."

"Maybe we should start her in kindergarten next year…" I flipped the omelet onto a plate, hearing Nolan moan.

"Not this again. C'mon, Ben, do you really want her to be a year behind her peers?"

"In some places, they don't go to kindergarten until they're 6."

"Well, not here."

I doled out the food in equal portions and sat at the table, only to find that I'd lost my appetite. I watched Nolan eat. He continued to stare at the newspaper, pretending to read. I never witnessed the strength of his relationship with his grandmother, but judging by the way he shut down when he received the call announcing her death, they were close at some point. I only met her a few times, when we brought Scarlet to the nursing home where she lived. A stroke made her mute, in the year before her death, but she enjoyed Scarlet's company immensely. Regret struck me like lightening. We should've taken Scarlet to visit with her more often…

"Go take care of our little lady," Nolan said, jarring me from my thoughts. He put his plate in the sink and kissed me. His eggy breath washed over my face. "Don't call the robot cunt. She'll just piss you off." His mocking smile made me roll my eyes. He grabbed his keys and left.

I wrapped my half of the omelet in aluminum foil and stowed it in the fridge. I needed to make a doctor's appointment for Scarlet, but the insurance company was being ridiculous. I picked up my phone, but Scarlet's shrill cry sent me running toward her room.

Her walls were painted green. Nolan considered himself a sort of feminist, and refused to deck out her room in pink. Instead, we went for gender-neutral colors like green and brown for her clothes and room decor. Her toys, too, were gender neutral - building blocks, toy animals, etc. At five years old, Scarlet was developing at an astonishing rate. She could count to 20, she could almost tell time, and she was speaking in full, detailed sentences. It truly was amazing to watch her grow as an individual. But when she was sick, it knocked her back to the stages of infancy. Her fever incapacitated her. It was terrifying for us.

When I arrived, she was standing beside her bed, tears streaking her ruddy face, her stringy red hair a mess. Giant tears spilled from watery brown eyes. I scooped her up, noting that she was shaking, and made for my car. Fuck the insurance company. She needed to see a doctor, even if the treatment costs came out of pocket.

Later that evening, Nolan still wasn't home. Scarlet was asleep in my lap, dosed for strep throat. I called him repeatedly, hating the way each of my voicemails sounded like a nagging wife demanding that her husband come home to his family. The funeral was in the morning and couldn't have lasted more than a few hours. At midnight, after four episodes of a Law and Order marathon, I put Scarlet in her bed. I did my best to sleep, but staying out late without calling or texting was way out of character. I was thinking the worst, but at 2:30AM, I heard the door open and close, heard his keys clatter against the kitchen counter. I was trying to remain objective, lying in bed, listening to him move through the house - fridge opens, beer can pops, TV turns on. After all, Nolan had never pulled shit like that, and the fact that his grandma just died begged my immediate forgiveness. Still, when he finally came to bed after 3:00AM, I felt strangely volatile. It was a relief that he didn't say a word or touch me. He was really drunk. He de-robed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep.

The next morning, I awoke before he did, no surprise. He still smelled like booze. I showered, hoping that Scarlet remained asleep until I had time to dress and make her breakfast. Unfortunately, midway through my shower the door opened and she decided to curl into a ball on the rug.

"My throat hurts," she groaned, when I wrapped a towel around my waist and picked her up. There was still shampoo in my hair.

I planted Scarlet in front of the TV, Little Bear playing on the screen, and hurriedly dressed. Dressing when you're wet sucks, and my frustration toward Nolan was mounting. He snored peacefully in our bed. Once dressed, I made oatmeal for Scarlet, and when she claimed she couldn't swallow it, I made chicken noodle soup instead. She slurped it contentedly on the couch while I washed the soap from my hair in the kitchen sink. I set about cleaning the apartment and caring for Scarlet for several hours before Nolan woke up at 1:30PM. He looked at me, almost seeming bewildered, before disappearing into the bathroom for half an hour. When he emerged, I was on the phone with the insurance company.

"Speak to a representative." Phone to my ear, I scooped up Scarlet when she started toying with a plant. The plant toppled over, shattering on the floor. I heard Nolan rooting around in the kitchen. The robot said, "I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that."

I left the muddy disaster on the floor, hoping Nolan would pick it up, and lugged Scarlet to her room, where her actual toys were stored. "I'm glad your fever is gone, honey, but please try and stay in this room with your toys." I kissed the top of her head. The robot said, "Please hold."

"Nolan?" I went into every room of the house, coming to stop beside the busted plant. His car was gone. He was gone.

That night he appeared after 6:00PM, and this time he didn't come home drunk. He came home with a group of friends. I recognized one of them - Bethany, a boisterous young blonde with an uproarious sense of humor - but the other three were strangers. They plopped on the couch with an open box of pizza. It was difficult to hide my scowl as I snatched my car keys and dropped Scarlet in his lap.

"I'm going to the store," I mumbled. "Be back sometime tomorrow."

"Whoa, wait!" He called after me. "You can't just leave."

"I can't just leave? I can't just leave?!"

The look I gave him must have been incredulous. I slammed the door a little too loudly on my way out. As dramatic as I wanted my exit to be, I couldn't let Scarlet go without her medicine, so I sent him a quick text, "Scarlet needs to take a pill in the morning. Medicine cabinet, second shelf." I sat in the driver's seat of my Toyota for a few hollow moments, wondering why I was so pissed. Sure, Nolan was being an asshole, but for me to flee the scene seemed disproportionate. I'd come to the realization that I often didn't understand my own motivation for things until after I'd made an ass of myself.

But there was no way I was sleeping in the same room as him. A night away wouldn't harm anyone, anyway. I didn't know where I was going until, half and hour in, I realized I was on the highway to Micah's house. He left Cameron when the opportunity to work back home came up. He lived 45 minutes from my apartment, but in the year since he'd returned, our friendship regained it's old potency.

"What a dick," he said, laughing, offering me an Oreo. "You know he'll apologize tomorrow, though."

Micah's smile was soothing.

"Where's Wyatt?"

"He has a job that's too far away to commute to every day. He's staying in a motel for the next week, courtesy of the construction company he's working with this time." Micah pulled two wine glasses from his cupboard and filled them both with dark red wine. I took my glass awkwardly.

"I'm not much of a wine person."

"I know," he sighed, "but it gets you drunk faster than beer."

I arched my brows. "Here's to getting drunk faster."

Our glasses clanked together. Micah switched on his stereo system - something jazzy but obscure, as always - and we relaxed on his sofa, chatting it up like old friends always do. By glass three, my limbs felt a little numb and my thoughts were growing sluggish. Micah gave me this lazy look of pure contentment. He had aged well. His face was mature, but he retained a playfulness that he could whip out at a moment's notice.

Somber, I asked, "Do you ever wonder what our lives would be like if… you know…?"

Micah's eyes, heavily lidded, focused on me. His nose was red. He was drunk; a lot more drunk than I was. I traced the lip of the wine glass with the pad of my thumb.

"I wonder sometimes," he conceded. "I think we'd be happy whatever we chose." Solidly, he continued, "But we have to stick with our choices."

I balked. "Of course, of course."

"Of course," he agreed with a sigh, setting aside his wine glass. "I'll get you a blanket and pillow."

He wobbled away toward the bedroom and I curled up on his sofa. When he returned, I took the blanket and pillow, he turned out the lights, and I was asleep before my mind could really wonder what my life would be like if I'd chosen Micah instead.

In the morning, I smelled breakfast. But, being at Micah's, it wasn't the kind of breakfast you'd expect. "Tacos? Really, Micah?'

He turned from his place at the stove and smiled. "Good morning."

"I have to be at work in a few hours," I said with a yawn, noticing that Micah's hair was a complete mess. He grinned, the lines in his face the only indicator that he wasn't the spritely youth from our first meeting. "I'll pass on the tacos, bro."

"OK, bro," he mocked, rolling his eyes, "but these are breakfast tacos. Scrambled eggs instead of beans and crumbled-up sausage instead of seasoned taco meat."

"Let me guess… served with a giant glass of Mountain Dew?"

"Duh," he snorted, scraping eggs into a taco shell.

"You're STILL disgusting. Thanks for lending me your sofa." I gave him a quick sideways hug before retreating to his bathroom. I took a shower, dressed in the clothes from the night before, and headed to work just as Micah was gathering notes into a brief case.

My cell screen was blank at noon that day. I tried to put it out of my mind. Maybe Nolan just had a busy day in the shop. Surely he'd call to patch things up if he had the time. But on the way home that evening, my only text was from Micah (Found your left sock. It was under the sofa. And you blamed the poor misunderstood sock gremlins! Apologize to the sock gremlins!).

I stopped by Scarlet's daycare to find that she'd already been picked up by my mother. I berated myself on the drive home for freaking out the daycare staff. Of course it was her night with Scarlet. When Scarlet returned the next day, she would have enough clothes to officially overrun her closet. I felt a little dread, pulling into a parking space outside the apartment. Spending a silent night alone with Nolan… Scarlet often acted as a buffer between us. Without her there, who knows what would be said, what would happen?

Being in love was great, for the most part. But I found myself increasingly terrified of Nolan and how badly he could break me if he wanted to. My hands were shaking, as I unlocked the apartment door. I found him on the sofa, staring at the TV with blank eyes. The movie sent weird shadows around the room. I took the remote and switched it off.

"I'm going to bed," he muttered.

And then he did just that.

I expected shouting. At the very least, I expected an argument. But there was none of that. Not a simple, "Hello." No, "I fucked up." Nothing. Something weird was happening, but once it gained momentum, it really felt like there was no stopping it.

Nolan

I packed Scarlet in her carseat and followed Bennett. He bee-lined for the highway and I followed him all the way to Micah's flat. Dumbstruck, I waited outside in the car, Scarlet sleeping in the back, and he didn't emerge.

The next morning, while Ben was in the shower, I prowled through his phone. The last message was from Micah. I found your left sock. It was under the sofa. And you blamed the poor misunderstood sock gremlins! Apologize to the sock gremlins!

Bennett's response being, I'll apologize to the gremlins once they fix your water heater. That was the coldest damn shower I've ever taken.

Somewhere, part of me argued that Bennett could've just slept over, innocently. Largely, though, I knew what it meant. Why else would Bennett run to an old love interest? He left for work. He left me seething, on the verge of confronting him. But I couldn't find the words. Our relationship had progressed so flawlessly after our marriage. I was terrified that the first real bump would be the last.

Micah

I found myself more distracted by Bennett's visit than I should've been. There I was, sitting in front of my client with my notepad, sketching my best possible sock gremlin, a doofy smile on my face. It wasn't until the session ended that I realized I hadn't heard a single word.

And then I realized, too, what was happening to me. Again.