I figured she’d be waiting by the door with bells on, but alas, no Temple Karrington in sight. But it’s a good thing. I fought tears the whole ride here, losing the battle a time or two, and as a result, I’m sure it’s glaringly obvious. If my mother sees me like this, she’ll blame him for hurting me, for breaking my heart, but the truth is, I did this to myself.
I got attached when I knew damn well not to.
And honestly, as painful as this is, I don’t blame him.
He was honest from the start.
I was the deceitful one, pretending to go along with the original terms of our arrangement while secretly enjoying every minute of being with him and making dandelion wishes that one of those days he’d change his mind and give us a shot.
I head up to my room and unpack my things.
I told my mother this would only be temporary, that I’m looking into renting a place near my job. She seemed fine about it over text, but I’m sure she’ll have something to say about it when she sees me in person.
As soon as I get into my room, I click on the bedside lamp and find a fluffy robe waiting on my bed as well as a bath bomb and a note.
My dearest Brighton,
We’re glad you’re home. Have a soak. Get some rest. And we’ll talk in the morning.
Love,
Mom
Oh, joy. Another talk. I’m sure she’ll feed me full of all kinds of positive reinforcement. I can already hear her saying, “I’m so glad you came to your senses” and “education before boys” and “you were too good for him from the start.”
She means well … in her own way.
I tiptoe into the bathroom and start filling the tub with hot water, dropping in the lavender chamomile bath bomb as I undress. Heading back out to my suitcase, I grab my toiletry bag and begin to unpack everything, placing my hair, makeup, and skincare products back in their original drawers.
My birth control pills are at the bottom of the bag. I’ve been on the pill since I was sixteen and desperate to regulate my cycle and calm the acne maelstrom that was happening on my face. I was shocked when my mother agreed, though looking back, sometimes I wonder if it had more to do with vanity than anything else. Perhaps she couldn’t stand to see her precious daughter’s face marred with ugly red zits.
But I digress.
I unsnap the compact and click it to today’s date so I don’t forget to take one tonight … only there’s one small problem.
Today’s the seventh sugar pill …
I should have started my period six days ago.
I’m late.
40
Madden
The place feels empty without her even though all she took was her suitcase and a few things from the bathroom. I guess I never realized how much ‘life’ she brought to this tiny little apartment.
And ironically enough, it’s so quiet I can’t sleep.
Grabbing my phone, I stream some music to my Bluetooth speakers and lie back down, tonight’s conversation playing in my head for the fiftieth time since she left. While she had a string of extremely valid points, the one thing that sticks out in my mind is what she said before she finally walked out the door …
She loves me.
Veronica said it a few times over the years, but she never meant it. She thought she did at the time, but we were kids. We didn’t know a thing about love. And I never could bring myself to say it back.
But I’ve been that way my whole life, one foot out the door, ready to jump at any time because the things I’ve cared about most in the world have been ripped from me when I least expected it.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s that when people are in love, they make plans.
But you can’t break plans if you never make them.
I roll to my side, staring at the empty half of the mattress where just twenty-four hours ago she slept beside me.
Maybe I should’ve stopped her from leaving. Maybe I shouldn’t have stood there like a schmuck, letting her walk away, but I’m a selfish bastard and that’s exactly the kind of thing selfish bastards do. I figured if I allowed myself to be with her, sooner or later she’d realize I’m not all that great, and she’d leave and it’d be the worst hell I could ever imagine.
So yeah. I let her go.
This way no one gets hurt.
Someone told me once that the way a heart breaks depends on how hard it was dropped. Some breaks are clean—and some shatter, sending millions of shards everywhere, shards so small you can’t see them …
…but you always feel them.
My god, do you feel them.
I can only hope—for her sake—this was a clean break.
41
Brighton
I keep my eye on my bathroom door Saturday morning as the timer on my phone counts down from two minutes. The pregnancy test I bought at the pharmacy on the drive home from the gym earlier today is still processing …
I’m convinced my mother’s going to barge in here at any second for some random reason and see the Dixie cup and white stick and start freaking out.
My phone chirps.
Two minutes are up.
Fingers crossed there’s nothing for her to freak out about …
Pulling in a deep breath, I walk to the counter and glance down at the test, prepared to be greeted with my fate.
Pregnant.
I take a seat on the lidded toilet, the positive test in my hand.
Great.
If my parents didn’t hate Madden before, they’re definitely going to hate him now.
I have no idea how this happened … we were always so careful. I’ve always been religious about taking the pill. He always used a condom—except that one time in his shop. But he pulled out. And that was so recent …
I wrap the test in several layers of toilet paper and place it at the bottom of my trash can.
I have to tell him.
He needs to know.
I didn’t get pregnant alone, so I’m sure as hell not doing this alone.
Resting my elbows on the tops of my thighs, I bury my face in my hands and practice slow, grounding breaths. Eyes closed, I try to picture us as a family, which I know is ridiculous. It’s nothing that he wants and it’s nothing that I wanted at this point in my life. I’ve always wanted to be a mother … just not like this.
In my little fantasy, I picture a baby with my hazel eyes and his thick, dark hair, but that’s as far as I get. The logical half of my brain kicks in and puts a stop to the whole thing because the three of us being a family will never happen. If he doesn’t love me, if he doesn’t want to be with me, a baby’s not going to change that.
Sitting up, I gather my composure and accept the facts.
I’m pregnant.
And I’m pregnant with the baby of a man who doesn’t want to be with me.
I park outside his apartment shortly after ten o’clock Saturday night, hoping I can catch him after he closes up the shop and before he heads over to Pierce’s or wherever he plans to celebrate the fact that he’s no longer chained to one woman anymore.
The shop is dark, nothing but a neon “Closed” sign hanging on the door, but the light above is lit, so I know he’s home.
My heart starts and stops a few times before I so much as make it out of my car. I have no idea how he’s going to react or if he’s going to think I’m just some crazy, dramatic wannabe girlfriend pulling some stunt to try to salvage what we had.
I hope he knows me better than that.
I thought about texting him before coming over, but the way I left things yesterday, I didn’t want to seem like one of those girls who are all over the place emotionally. I didn’t want him to think I was playing games or trying to reel him back in.
This is serious.
And this isn’t about me.
I place my hand on my lower belly. I’m sure this baby’s no bigger than a poppy seed but in the few short hours I’ve known of its existence, it’s already become my entire world. I spent the better part of the day concocting some kind of way to make it on my own. As much as Madden adores his sister, you’d think he’d be even more involved in this baby’s life, but I don’t expect anything from him.
And I don’t want to get my hopes up all over again just to get burned.
I make my way to the side entrance of the building and then to the stairs that lead to his door on the second level. With each step, my pulse whooshes in my ears. My mouth is dry and my stomach is in knots, but as soon as I get this over with, I can be on my way.
I’m five steps from the top landing when I notice his door is ajar. Two voices trail from inside … one his … one definitely … not his.
It’s a woman’s voice.
Distinct. Babyish almost.
With a held breath, I peer through the three-inch opening in the door and see him standing near the kitchen table next to a woman with jet-black hair, tattooed arms, and bright red lips.
Veronica?
“God, I’ve missed you, baby. So much. You have no idea.” She cups his face in her hands. “Seeing you with that other girl was fucking torture. I’m glad you finally came to your senses.”
The woman throws her arms around Madden’s shoulders and my stomach twists, the threat of bile burning the back of my throat. I can’t watch another second of this. Dashing down the stairs, I flee the building and return to my car.
I’ll tell him another time. After I’ve calmed down.