by Aimee Salter
I hope she doesn’t.
“Well, Ms. Weatherly,” the doctor says. I have to remember we gave a fake name. Holly’s worried about people recognizing me. There’s been a lot of press about my first performance, then disappearance from the tour. “I have some good news,” she says.
I hold my breath.
“Your onsite screen was clear. You don’t have any trace of those diseases. I’ll be sending the swabs away for further screening. But initial signs are good.”
I slump, grabbing the edge of the mattress and almost crying with relief. This can be over. I can just . . . I don’t know what I can do. But hopefully, I don’t have to worry about being sick while I figure it out.
Holly’s hand rubs up and down my back. But I’m breathing cool, clean air, and I almost smile. For the first time since I woke up that morning, I feel relief.
I fix on the sound of the guy talking on the radio without absorbing his words. Then the thought comes. Maybe I can get in touch with Crash? Just to let him know I’m okay?
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling like he’s right there. Listening, reaching out for me. Maybe he doesn’t hate me? They’re supposed to be in England in a couple weeks. I should explain before he has to leave the country—
The doctor’s hand lands on my knee and I jump, pushing it off.
“I’m very sorry,” she says, meeting my gaze with kind, startlingly green eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But there was one thing we found.”
I knew it.
My lungs freeze up completely, waiting for her to eviscerate me.
“Ms. Weatherly, were you aware that you’re pregnant?”
I stare, frozen as the doctor keeps talking.
“What? But . . .” I claw against the rising horror. But, nothing. My vision begins to tunnel, fuzz to black on the edges.
“Ms. Weatherly?”
Holly leaps up to stand in front of me, holding my hands. She’s talking. But I can’t hear her words.
I feel Crash leave me. Reject me.
If he knew he’d kill Turk—or whoever it was.
He’ll never look at me with desire again.
In the corner on the counter, the little radio kicks up a drumbeat intro that slams my eyes closed in the second before Crash’s voice, distant and low, rasps into the last part of me that wasn’t raw. Because God has a sense of humor. Crash really is in the room after all.
I don’t believe in coincidences.
. . . So take it all and go
Whatever satisfies.
Leave and don’t come back
Since you’re never satisfied.
Everything’s turned upside down
You don’t know wrong from right.
So take it all, just take it all
And go.
Take all of me and go.
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- Aimee