by Tracy Wolff
But that’s not an option, largely because my body has come with its own personal countdown clock, one that will go off in six months whether I’m ready for it to or not. And because, as we pull up Z’s long and winding driveway, I see Luc’s Range Rover parked right at the top of the hill.
“What’s he doing here?” I demand. It’s not that he’s completely stopped hanging out at Z’s house since I’ve moved in—of course he hasn’t—but his visits have been few and far between. He usually only shows his face when the group of us are getting together. So the fact that he’s here now, just as I come back from my first obstetrician visit, is more than a little suspect.
“Oh, shit,” Ophelia says. “Z promised he wouldn’t say anything.”
“You told him? You promised—”
“I didn’t mean to! I swear! He tricked it out of me. And when I freaked out, he said everything was going to be fine. I thought that meant he wasn’t going to tell Luc, but you know how he is.” She looks miserable. “I’m so sorry, Cam.”
I do know exactly how he is. Just like I know he’s got his own, unique code of honor which I am positive had him running straight to Luc with the news of my pregnancy—which is awesome, really. Just frickin’ fabulous. It’s not like I wanted a day or two to assimilate it myself, before I told him. Not like I wanted to get a handle on what I’m going to do or anything.
Dealing with Luc on top of everything else today is exactly what I want to have happen. Of course it is.
Fuck. Maybe I should rethink my policy on not being a gigantic crybaby—
“Why didn’t you at least warn me?” I demand, slowly unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing out of the car. “I could have at least thought about what I was going to say to him.”
“I thought I had more time. I was sure he’d at least wait until we got back from the doctor to talk to Luc.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t look real likely right now, does it?”
She doesn’t answer. But then, she doesn’t have to. Not when Luc throws open the front door and races down the front walkway straight at me.
Chapter 16
Luc
I’ve been pacing Z’s foyer for the last hour and a half, ever since he got the text from Ophelia telling him they were on their way home. I worked up a whole speech in my head, went through a million different ways to say what I want to say and a million different reactions to whatever Cam is going to say to me.
In my head, every single one of them is cool and collected and well thought out. Every single one of them is kind and supportive and determined to be helpful.
Too bad what my head is telling me to do doesn’t manage to translate to my body.
Instead, the second I hear Ophelia’s car pull into the driveway I’m out of the house with only one thought in my head—to get to Cam. And when she actually climbs out of the car, looking pale and vulnerable and more fragile than I’ve ever seen her, all I want to do is pull her into my arms and tell her everything’s going to be okay. Tell her that, no matter what, I’ll be there for her and I’ll take care of her.
But what comes out of my mouth, instead, is, “When the fuck were you going to tell me?”
She stiffens—of course she does—and though she still looks breakable, she shoves the vulnerability deep inside herself where I can’t see it. Where I can’t get to it—or her. Goddamnit.
“I just got back from having it confirmed by my gynecologist. Which means I’ve only known for sure for all of two hours. So, why don’t you back the hell off, huh?”
She moves to brush past me, but I grab her elbow, pull her to a stop. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little freaked out. I had no idea this was even a possibility—”
Cam doesn’t look at me when she replies.
“Really? Because I was in the same sex-ed class as you in school and I’m pretty clear on how babies are made.”
“You know that’s not what I meant—”
“When it comes to you, I don’t know anything.”
She pulls against my grip, but I hang on. There’s a part of me that’s afraid if I let go, I’ll never get to hold her again. Never get to touch her again.
How did things get this messed up between us? I was a fool to let her go when she walked out of my apartment a couple months ago, but how was I supposed to know things were going to get this bad between us? Things weren’t this awful even after that one drunken night we spent together. How could I have anticipated then that we would go this far off course?
“What does it matter to you, anyway?” she demands, losing patience with me and yanking her elbow out of my grasp. “How do you even know it’s yours?”
For a moment, just a moment, my stomach drops. Because that’s my worst fucking nightmare, isn’t it? That I matter so little to her that she can just replace me with some other guy—or worse, that all along I was a replacement for the guy she really wanted. That, all along, I can’t get over her no matter what I do while she never had to get over me at all.
But then, common sense kicks in and I ignore the insecurities, ignore the fear that I’m not good enough because I never have been before. Instead, I tell myself that just because she’s zeroed in on my worst fear doesn’t mean it’s a reality. It just means that she knows me as well as I know her. One more problem that comes with making love to your best friend.
“Please don’t do this,” I tell her. “I know it’s mine.”
She lifts a taunting brow. “You sure about that? You sure it isn’t Josh Greene’s?”
Behind me I hear Z utter a quiet, “the fuck?” only to be hushed by Tansy and Ophelia.
“Or maybe it’s Z’s. Did you ever think about that?”
This time Z’s “the fuck?” is a lot louder and more vehement.
But Cam’s not done, not by a long shot. “Of course you did. That’s probably all you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it? Wondering whose baby it was. Wondering if I’m going to try to pawn somebody else’s kid off on you—”
“I never once thought you were carrying anybody else’s baby but mine.”
“Bullshit. You don’t trust me. You’ve never trusted me. You’re so worried about me being like everyone else, me thinking you’re not good enough. But ask yourself, if that’s the case, why would I want to have your baby anyway? Why would I—”
“That’s enough, Cam.” The words are low and harsh and though they’re exactly what I’m thinking—what I’ve been thinking ever since Cam started her quest to eviscerate me—they don’t come from me. Instead, they come from Z, who has somehow inserted himself between us. “You’re acting like a real bitch.”
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what’s enough? Who the fuck are you to tell me I’m being a bitch?” She lashes out at him then, planting her hands in the middle of his chest and shoving hard. “You’re the one who went and tattled to Luc like a little bitch. You’re the one who caused this whole scene.”
I’m not sure who’s more shocked by her diatribe—Z or me. She never talks to him like that, never lays into him when she can make an excuse for him instead. Except on closer examination, he doesn’t look shocked at all. He looks annoyed and maybe even a little abashed, but not shocked. A quick glance tells me neither Tansy nor Ophelia are shocked either. So maybe she has, and I’ve just never seen it.
I’m not sure what that means, and now isn’t the time to figure it out, either. Because Cam isn’t done.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I needed a day or two to get my head together before having to deal with Luc, too? That maybe I wanted to think about things and figure out what I want before I try to figure out what he wants. And if I even care?”
She turns to me then, and she’s still pissed, still not pulling any punches.
“And could you just give me some fucking room, please? The last thing I need right now is you breathing down my neck.”
“I’ve given you nothing but room since you walked out of my apartment three months ago, and look where it’s gott
en us. I just want you to know—”
“Where it’s gotten us?” she asks with a disbelieving laugh. “Even if we’d been fucking like bunnies for the last three months, I’d still be pregnant.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. We haven’t been the same since you left—”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who didn’t trust me. You’re the one who was convinced I would dump you the second I got my hooks into a guy who could barge a 1440 without breaking a sweat. And now you want me to care what you think? About anything? It doesn’t work like that, Luc.”
Her words hurt, just like she intends them to. Partly because she’s right—I don’t expect her to stay with me when she can have any number of guys who are better boarders and better people than I am.
But I resigned myself to that a long time ago, so what really hurts—what really cuts deep—is that she doesn’t care what I think about this pregnancy. Just the idea that she might not take into consideration how I feel about the baby we made definitely makes me feel like shit. I’m the father. Shouldn’t I get a vote?
But at the same time, she has a very real point. Z did go behind her back to tell me. And instead of being civilized about it, I totally ambushed her. Totally hit her when she wasn’t expecting it—and worse, when she was feeling really vulnerable. That’s not cool. Not cool at all.
So for the first time since she got out of Ophelia’s car, I look behind the hectic color in her cheeks to the strain underneath. Sure, she’s in fight mode right now, but beneath the defensiveness, she’s scared and she’s exhausted. Now that I’m looking for it, I can see it right away.
The knowledge that she’s scared, that she’s suffering, hits me harder than any of the rest has—even the news that I’m going to be a father. Because before anything, before I fell in love with her, before I made love to her, she was Cam. Just Cam.
The girl who shared her Skittles with me on the playground in second grade.
The girl who let me kiss her in sixth grade so that I could practice for what I thought was my first “real kiss” with Addison Leigh.
The girl who froze her ass off in the half-pipe for hours as she helped me learn how to do a 1080 after Z and Ash had barged it like it was nothing.
This is Cam. My best friend. And she’s hurting.
I reach for her then, pull her into a hug. She rests against my body for long seconds, and I’m astonished at how cold she is. Colder than the air around us. Colder, even, then the snow beneath our feet.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, the words tripping on and over each other as they tumble out of my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
She nods against me, and I expect her to pull away—Cam really isn’t really the type to cry on someone else’s shoulder, and she’s already let me hold her longer than I ever expected her to. But she doesn’t move away, doesn’t shove me back. Instead she stands there, face buried in my neck, body burrowed up against mine and lets me hold her.
So I do. I pull her closer, curving my shoulders in so that I can shelter her from the wind whipping against us. From the cold that’s coming at her from without and within. The fact that she lets me tells me everything I need to know about her emotional state. Well, that and the slick, warm tears I can feel rolling down my neck.
Cam doesn’t cry. Cam never cries. So the fact that she’s messed up this badly—that I’ve messed her up this badly—wounds me more deeply than anything she might possibly say to me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, stroking her back as tenderly as she’ll let me. “I’m so sorry. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen. I swear.”
She stiffens then, pushes me away. Turns away. And this time I don’t have a clue what I’ve done wrong. I glance behind me, then, hoping to get some kind of help from Ophelia or Tansy or even Z, but there’s no one there. Sometime in the middle of our fight, they all snuck away. To give us privacy, I’m sure. But as I’m currently standing here with an angry, emotional Cam, privacy isn’t what I need—help is.
“Is that really what you think is about?” she demands. “Me making a wish, and you doing whatever I want you to?”
“I’m just trying to help you, Cam. I just want to help.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? My career is going up in flames, everything I’ve worked for disappearing right in front of me and you want to help? Your career is fine—or as fine as it’s going to get. No one’s going to step in and tell you that you can’t board. No one’s going to take away the one thing that matters more to you than anything else. You’re fine. You’re safe. I’m the one who’s screwed. I’m the one who can’t get on a board until after I get this thing out of me.”
She holds her hands out wide, her fists clenching and unclenching with every few words. “But big man that you are, you want to help. How the fuck do you think you’re going to do that? Can you make it so this never happened? Can you make it so that I’m not pregnant?”
I stare at her helplessly, her words chasing themselves around and around in my head. Screwed. Not pregnant. Get this thing out of me. I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to do to make this better. Because the truth is, I don’t want her to have an abortion. I don’t want her to get rid of my baby. And though I know it’s her choice, know she can do whatever she wants with her body, I don’t want her to do that. Not with our baby.
I don’t say that, though. I don’t say anything. I can’t. My whole body is frozen while my mind tries to fight off the horror and the fear that is suddenly racing through me.
Cam takes my silence for what it is—an indicator of my guilt and my impotence.
“Yeah,” she says with a snort and a shake of her head. “That’s about what I figured you’d say.”
She walks around me then, making sure to give me a wide berth as she lets herself into Z’s house. And as the door slams behind her, I finally understand what it means to be left out in the cold.
Chapter 17
Cam
What am I going to do? What am I going to do? WhatamIgoingtodo?
I’m lying on my dark-blue comforter, staring at the square patch of gray sky currently visible through the skylight above my bed. It’s the same patch of gray I’ve been staring at for three days—the same patch of gray that I’m afraid I’ll be staring at for the next six months. Oh, it turns dark at night and bright white when it’s about to snow, but in the end it always goes back to gray. It’s dark and drab and more than a little threatening—which is exactly what my life feels like right now. Not to be too melodramatic about it or anything.
What am I going to do? What am I going to do? WhatamIgoingtodo?
The words beat at me¸ making my head hurt and my stomach roll. Or maybe it’s the baby that’s causing the nausea. Morning sickness, ugh. And the hits just keep on coming.
When I can’t stare at the same patch of sky any longer—or the same ceiling—I roll over onto my side. Reach for one of the folders from Dr. Amato. As soon as I open the folder I know from the names of the pamphlets inside that I’m looking at the abortion folder.
My hands start to shake before I ever take a pamphlet out.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. Idon’twanttodothis.
I don’t want to have an abortion. But I don’t want to have this baby either. I don’t want to give up my career, give up everything that I’ve worked so hard for. And I sure as hell don’t want to look in Luc’s eyes and tell him that I’ve aborted his baby.
He told me that he wanted to help, that he would do whatever I wanted. But did he mean this? Did he mean he was okay with me getting rid of his baby? And if he did, what does that mean? That he’s worried about me, about my career? Or simply that he doesn’t want the responsibility of being a dad?
Not that I blame him. It’s not like I want the responsibility of being a mom. I don’t even know how to be a mom. How can I when my own mother has been absent for so much of my life? Yeah, she’s back now. But that
doesn’t mean I’m going to have anything to do with her. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to go to her for parenting advice.
I shudder at the mere thought.
Have an abortion or have the baby? Have an abortion or have the baby?
I don’t know. I just don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know anything right now. If I have the baby, I don’t know how I’m going to live without the endorsement deals and tournament winnings that I’ll be forfeiting. Z and Ophelia have told me that no matter what I decide, I’m welcome to stay here with them. But come on, I’ve been here for three months as it is. Do I really think their patience is going to be infinite? That I can just move myself—and a baby—in here and they won’t mind at all?
I mean, Luc can support me for a year. He’s got some endorsement deals—they’re not worth what Z’s and mine are, but they’re still good. Still more than enough for the three of us to live on. But how can I expect that of him when we’re not together? When he doesn’t trust or want me? When the only reason he’d be with me is because of the baby?
What am I going to do? Whatamigoingtodo? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
No matter how many times I ask myself that question, I still don’t know the answer.
I pull one of the pamphlets out of the folder, start to open it. But before I can so much as look at the first page, my stomach gives up the good fight. Then I’m running for the bathroom, hand over my mouth.
I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up the very nutritious eggs on whole wheat toast and fruit that Tansy convinced me to eat for breakfast. It comes up fast. In that regard, morning—or should I say all-day since it’s nearly one—sickness is so much better than the flu. Still, I’m not sure this is the end of it, so I stay on the floor for a little while, just waiting for the dry heaves to start.
They don’t come, so I push myself up, and splash water on my face. There’s a part of me that says I need to get over this. I should get dressed, go out, try to live my life while I still have it. But considering I currently have the energy level of a geriatric slug, doing anything more than brushing my teeth seems like too much effort.