Queen of Hawthorne Prep

At eighteen, that’s not something I had ever considered.

Until now…

Now the possibility is there, circling in the back of my mind like a hungry shark.

The entire time we were in the emergency room, Kingsley was at my side, holding my hand, asking questions, making sure I was being properly cared for. We weren’t there for long. In the end, there was nothing that could be done. I was given a pelvic exam and an ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage. Then I was discharged and sent on my way. The ride home was made in deafening silence, neither of us attempting to fill it. There didn’t seem to be any words that could do justice to the moment.

Kingsley has remained subdued in the twenty-four hours since. His dark eyes have become inscrutable, his thoughts a mystery. All I know is that from the moment he found out about the pregnancy, he wanted me to keep it. He tried to take care of me. I’m the one who was filled with doubts. With uncertainty regarding whether I could bring a baby into this world at such a young age and into a future marriage based on nearly eighty years of bad blood between our families.

Once we pulled into the circular drive, Kingsley helped me into the house before carrying me up the sweeping staircase. I wrapped my arms around his neck and clung to him, craving the closeness. After that, he tucked me into bed, told me to rest, and disappeared from sight. I haven’t seen him since. Every couple of hours, Mrs. Fieber knocks on the door, setting a tray of food on the nightstand.

7-Up and buttered toast.

As if I have a flu that will pass in a day or so. She’s remained stoic but her expression is less severe as if she’s been apprised of the circumstances. That only makes the tears fall harder.

Gingerly, as if my entire body is riddled with pain, I unfurl from my huddled position before rolling onto my back and sitting up. There is a hollowed-out hole that fills my chest cavity and a heaviness that weighs me down. I can’t imagine not carrying this pain with me for the rest of my life.

As I glance around, a gasp slides from my lips when I find Kingsley sitting in a wingback chair situated across the room, silently watching me.

When he says nothing, I clear my throat. It feels scratchy and raw, as if I haven’t used it in years. “What are you doing here?”

He jerks his shoulders as his face remains expressionless. “Watching you sleep.”

The deep scrape of his voice sends a shiver careening through me.

When another heavy silence blankets us, I force myself to ask, “For how long?”

It’s strange to think of Kingsley sitting in the corner, staring at me while I’ve been oblivious to his presence. As more light floods into the room, his facial features take shape and I’m able to see the deep purple bruises that decorate the delicate skin beneath his eyes.

“All night.”

The admittance comes as something of a surprise. “You slept in the chair?”

He shakes his head and drags a hand down his face. “No, I didn’t sleep.”

I swallow down the guilt as my gaze fastens on to the window that stretches from the floor to the ceiling and the trees that dot the background beyond it. “I’m sorry about the baby.”

The apology is bitter and tastes like ashes on my tongue. Before I can say anything more, Kingsley hurtles out of the chair and lands on the bed. He drags me into his arms, crushing me against the steely strength of his chest until every molecule of air has been wrung from my body and there is nothing left inside.

No emotion.

No life.

Just an empty carcass in place of the person I once was.

Wetness treks down my cheeks as I bury my face in the hollow of his neck and breathe him in. The familiar scent of his woodsy cologne wraps around me, filling me with solace. One by one, my muscles loosen as I melt into him. We cling like two survivors of a storm that will never stop raging.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” His lips brush over the top of my head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“How do you know? Maybe it happened because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep this baby.” Grief and guilt stab at my heart. It’s like a thousand tiny slashes that leave anguish behind in its place.

His grip tightens as his voice turns gruff. “You heard what the doctor said. The pregnancy was in its early stages. Most women don’t realize they’re expecting at that point.” There’s a beat of silence before he adds softly, “We both know it’s not possible to will away a pregnancy.”

Somewhere in the back of my brain, I acknowledge the truth of what he’s saying, but it still feels as if my indecision set this ugly chain of events into motion. As if the choice was ripped away from me because of my confusion.