by K. C. Enders
“Gracyn, give me your keys,” Lis says, her hand extended, palm up. “Aidan and I can get my car later.” Her boyfriend is the stuff that romance novels are made of.
Chapter 18
Kate
THIS IS NOT LIKE any stomach bug I’ve ever had before. Sick but not. There but not really.
Queasy.
Icky.
Some days are worse than others, but none of them are ever really great.
“Sugar, you doing okay? You don’t sound so good,” Mama says on an early morning call.
Soft down pillows cradle my head and one foot rests on top of the comforter while the rest of me snuggles deep into the fluffy warmth. If I lie perfectly still, I might be okay. “I’m fine, Mama. Just tired,” I croak, my throat dry from sleep.
My mother tsks at me. “I hope you didn’t catch something from those babies in your class. Drink some juice, take your vitamins, and all that. We can’t have you sick when you come home in a couple of weeks.”
She’s right. My sister-in-law has just stopped puking her guts up from growing baby número dos. If I descend on all them and bring any kind of sickness with me, she just might kill me.
“I’ll be healthy, I promise,” I tell her. “I need to get up and shower, Mama. I’ll talk to you later.” I end the call and toss my phone to the middle of my bed. Lord have mercy, I don’t feel well. I roll to my side and breathe through my mouth until the roiling subsides.
As I contemplate making the move to a sitting position, I run through my class roster, making mental notes on who has been sick lately and whether or not they wiped their hands on me or sneezed on me. Anything. I am nothing if not religious with the hand sanitizer for this very reason. I hate being sick.
I push myself up and count to ten. So far, so good. When I stand though, my stomach revolts, and I run to the bathroom, wrapping myself around the cool porcelain just in time to heave. And heave. And heave again.
“Kate, you okay?” Gracyn calls.
She’s the second person to ask me that today, and the sun’s not even up yet.
“Yep. ’M fine.” Actually, I’m seriously starting to question whether or not I really am. I lean back against the tub, the tiled floor cold on my legs.
I tilt my head back and try to relax all the muscles in my core. Breathing carefully. Moving as little as possible. Stillness has become my new best friend. Finally, I pull myself up from the floor and rinse my mouth out, splashing some cool water on my face. I open the cabinet door to pull out a fresh towel and see an array of pads, tampons, all unused since …
Since when? Christmas? Meh, I was in Mississippi for Christmas and used what I had there.
Side-eyeing myself in the mirror above the sink, I count the weeks since my last period and come up the same each time. It doesn’t make sense. Period at Christmas, no sexy times since then, so I can’t be …
Lord, I can’t even think the word.
“Coffee’s made,” Gracyn yells from the hallway.
I’m having a crisis here, and my roommate is yelling about coffee. The faint odor of it invades my senses, and I lurch for the toilet, retching one last time.
No. Nope. No.
I rinse my mouth again and start the shower, hoping the now offensive smell will have dissipated enough by the time I finish up in here to grab a piece of toast from the kitchen. Or a cracker. I don’t know.
I know. I totally know.
By the grace of God, I manage to get myself together for work. Opting for a bottle of green tea and a sleeve of plain crackers to get me through the day.
I search my symptoms during rest time, and for the love of all that is good, I don’t like what Dr. Google is telling me.
I can’t be.
According to my newest enemy, it’s entirely possible to have a period early in pregnancy, which would mean … I’m—
Nope. I can’t be.
I close my laptop and put my head down for a rest, too. Denial and avoidance are my two new best friends. I’m totally ostriching this thing I have going on. This is such a foreign feeling for me. After what went down with Chance, I’ve made a big damn effort to not stick my head in the sand anymore, to face everything head-on. That saying about leaving nothing to chance, I normally take that shit pretty seriously. But the prospect of this, this situation, scares the shit out of me.
By the time I get home, bypassing McBride’s for some much-needed quiet and solitude, my nerves are frayed. I make my way through the apartment, putting things away as I go. My lunch bag in the kitchen, laptop on the coffee table. The peace and sense of order that these simple things usually bring me are nowhere to be found.
Shuffling into my room, I sink down onto my bed and heave out what should be a deep, cleansing breath. Instead, it comes out shakier than I wanted and does nothing to calm me. Not a damn thing.
The need to process—I can’t even bring myself to think the word—this p-p-predicament without actually talking to someone is overwhelming. And the only person I really want to talk to about any of this is the one person I can’t reach. The person who deserves to know before anyone else.
I could text him. But, with his Merry Christmas text being the impersonal brush-off it was, I’m pretty damn sure that, even if I could reach him, this news wouldn’t really excite him. Instead, I pull a thick sheet of paper from the stationery box my mama gave me for my last birthday and settle it on the surface, lining it up perfectly parallel with the bottom edge. I run a finger along the slightly bumpy surface, noting the imperfect pattern of fibers in the handmade paper. Anything to avoid what will undoubtedly be a difficult letter for me to write.
Jack,
Lord, how do I even begin this? Remember when I told you we were good, nothing to worry about on the exploding-condom front? Turns out, that might have been a bit premature. I haven’t taken a test yet. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure I can. I need to sit with it, make peace, process the reality of this … change in direction. I sure as hell did not think this would happen. I really want you to know that.
You were clear on the fact that a family was not something you planned on having. Your job is your focus, and I get that; I do. But, as scared as I am about being solely responsible for another human being, I’m going to do this. I want to do this. And, when you get back, if you want to share in this little surprise gift, I—we—will scoot on over and make room for you.
Be safe.
—Kate
I stare at the simple words I scratched onto the paper, wondering what Jack will think when he reads them. If he reads them.
Fully aware that I’m not ready for Gracyn to stumble across this little nugget of information, I carefully fold it and look around my room. My gaze lands on the pile of untouched journals stacked on my bookshelf, the pretty red one from Jack solidly in the middle of the grouping. I ease it from where it sits, realigning the others so that they’re centered in size order.
The soft, buttery red leather feels decadent beneath my fingertips. The gift both unexpected and absolutely cherished. I open the cover, careful not to abuse the spine. The cream-colored paper, lightly lined, beckons for words. Pleading to perform a special service. How can I have seven beautiful journals and no words in them? Is it really marring the pages, to fill them?
Decision made, I pick up my pen from where I tossed it moments ago and date the top of the first page.
Oops. Such a simple word, but all the holy cows can it be powerful, too! Only by one of the definitions, are you an oops though. A surprise? You know it. But I will never apologize for your existence, nor am I dismayed. I haven’t confirmed that you’re really there. I’m not quite ready to share you with the world in any capacity just yet. I want to keep you close, just the two of us, since your father isn’t here. Lord, your father. I wish I could predict how he’d react to this whole thing, but, baby, I don’t know. Whether he’s with us or not, you and I are going to have an amazing adventure.
I tuck my letter to Jack between the pages and set my pen aside
. This might possibly be the only way my baby will ever know his or her daddy. The weight of that thought forces me into the stack of pillows at the top of my bed. I clutch the journal to my chest and stare out my window, streetlights casting small pools of light below.
It’ll be okay.
I’ll be okay.
We … we’ll be okay.
***
“HEY, WHAT’RE YOU DOING?” Gracyn asks, pulling me from a dream that ghosts as soon as my eyes flutter open. “You still not feeling well?” She leans against the doorframe, not venturing into what could be a sick room.
I don’t feel great, but it’s not like I’m contagious. “I’m fine, really. Just tired from the little darlings.” I tuck my journal under the rumpled blanket on my bed, praying that the cranberry-red cover is somehow hidden under the snowy sea of white linens.
“Mmm, they hit their slump?” she asks, taking a seat in the chair by the window. “Are they acting up?”
Pushing myself up so that I can lean against the headboard, I tilt my head back and forth before answering. “They’re somewhere between lawless heathens and full-out riot. The snow days aren’t helping much either,” I lament. “They need some damn consistency.”
Gracyn purses her lips, nodding slowly, but avoids meeting my eyes. “I used to live for snow days,” she says softly.
Something’s up with her. Or maybe I should say something more is up with her.
After the bullshit with her accounting client and the cozy, completely misleading family picture he posted, she has been dealing with misunderstandings, bad timing, and more fallout than a person should ever have to. I know it’s hard, with Gavin and his band touring Europe, but her world has completely been thrown ass end up.
“Has Gavin responded to any of your messages?” I ask gently.
Her lip pinched between her thumb and forefinger, she shakes her head.
“You givin’ up on him?”
Gracyn snaps her head up, tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. Her nostrils flare as she tries her best not to fall apart.
Chapter 19
Kate
“NOPE. I’M GOING TO do it,” Gracyn says beaming.
I love her, but I’m worried about her. “Gracyn, he hasn’t returned a single message. Hasn’t texted, sent an e-mail. He hasn’t called again. Nothing.”
Is this a maternal-instinct kind of thing? When did I become the voice of reason around here?
I drop into my chair and hoist my feet up onto the edge of my bed, sinking low into the cushions. Reflexively, my hands settle low on my belly, and my eyes drift shut. I’m so damn tired.
“Tell me again what you’re gettin’ inked,” I say.
She wants to talk for the first time in a long time, finally opening up a bit again after essentially mourning the loss of her job, walking away from her overbearing asshole of a father, and hearing nothing from Gavin while he was on tour. In fact, it’s been a couple of weeks since our last chat, and nothing’s really changed except Gracyn is decidedly less weepy and sprawled comfortably across my bed.
“Are you still feeling like shit?” Gracyn asks, eyes taking in where my hands are splayed.
“Nope,” I lie. “Just relaxing.” I twist the hem of my shirt in my hands, hoping that looks more natural, more chill.
She hums at me, her tell that she thinks I’m lying, but whatever. We’re talking about her right now, not me.
“Right. So, you know how Lis went to the last show of the tour? When Aidan took her to Dublin to see his family? She recorded the last song that the band played, the one that hasn’t been released.”
She’s watching me, her gaze skating over me while she talks. I stuff down an after-school yawn and try hard to look like I’m not about to pass out.
“Yep.”
“The recording isn’t the best, but I’m pretty sure it’s the song he was working on in Central Park when he was serenading me.” Gracyn shifts forward, pushing off of the headboard and scooting her ass to the center of my bed. Thankfully, the more she talks, the more distracted she gets, folding and creasing the fabric of my duvet, making small fan shapes and then smoothing them out again.
“But the words, Kate,” she sighs. “The lyrics of that song absolutely speak to my soul. I know how badly I screwed this thing up with Gavin. Every step, right from the very start. That whole twenty-twenty hindsight is making me its bitch, but I want this. It’s a way to always have a piece of him close to my heart, you know?”
Do I fucking ever.
“It’s the last line of the song. One kiss, and I was done. Baby, you’re my one. In a simple script, maybe along my rib cage.” She sits up straight, running her fingers just underneath her left boob.
Boobs. Mine are popping, big-time. I’m almost exclusively wearing sports bras at this point because it just feels better to have them locked in tight to me. No bounce, no movement. Nothing brushing against them.
“Kate? Did you hear me?” Gracyn asks, head cocked to the side and her eyebrow raised up high. Just the left one.
There’s no use in trying to lie. She wants an answer to something, and I have no idea what she asked.
So, I suck it up and admit, “I didn’t, sorry. I kind of blanked somewhere after you showed me where you want this permanently etched into your skin. But think about it, G. Tattoos are forever. What if he never speaks to you again? What if there is no forward for the two of you, and then you have to explain having the lyrics of what’s inevitably going to be a wildly popular song inked by your heart to some other guy? That’s going to be an awkward conversation. I’m just sayin’.”
Gracyn’s jaw tightens a bit as my words settle between us. “You don’t understand, Kate. Your dude was here and gone again. Hell, you didn’t even tell us that you were seeing him until well after he was gone.” She shakes her head at me, annoyed. “You just enjoyed him and let him go. I know you want more. I know you do. But, until you’ve met someone and you can’t imagine not having something of them to hold on to when they’re gone, you’re just not going to understand.”
She pushes herself up off my bed and stalks out of my room. I’m tired and cranky, and I know it, but that was pretty bitchy for someone who has been moping around and making life around her miserable for the past several weeks.
Silence echoes through the apartment after Gracyn leaves, probably heading for McBride’s for a shift behind the bar. I’m not sure how much longer she’s going to be able to make her half of our rent. Since she walked away from her job, she’s been trying to drum up small businesses to do their accounting and working whatever shifts she can get at the Irish pub, but I know money is tight for her. And, now, she’s apparently dead set on dropping a chunk of change on a tattoo.
I wouldn’t care, but I’m pretty fucking sure I’m going to have some big expenses coming up. I really can’t deny it anymore and should probably make an appointment before my belly pops out for real and takes over my silhouette. So much to do. So many things to think about.
Hoisting myself out of the chair, I take my red journal from the drawer beside my bed and grab a pen. The letter to Jack marks the next blank page, about a quarter of the journal filled with everything I want this baby to know about his daddy. With thoughts and concerns about how I’m going to take care of him … or her and the adventures we’ll have. Lists of what I need to buy.
My sweet little Oops.
I’m guessing that, today, you’re about the size of a fig. And I still haven’t taken an actual test to confirm your existence. You’re there though. Changing things up, making yourself known, if only to me still.
Auntie G is maybe losing her mind, but you’ll see, when you meet her, that’s pretty normal at times. I love her dearly, but today, I just want to string her up by her toes. I’ve about had enough of her thinking she’s the only one dealing with heartbreak and troubles. We’ve all been there, and maybe—just maybe—she needs to open her eyes and really see what’s happening around her. She’s going
through some things at the moment, so I’m trying to give her some grace.
So, here’s your nugget of life advice. Be aware, baby. Your daddy is so good at that. Paying attention to the things going on around him. Observing things, reading people. I don’t know if it’s something just quintessentially him or if he cultivated it for his job, but he watches, sees things. He’s a good man. You’ve got good genes, baby cakes. Seriously good genes.
Each entry in the journal reminds me again of all the things that drew me to Jack. All the reasons I took that chance on someone I had known was short-term. The fact that I got a lifelong souvenir from that carnival ride is just a surprise little bonus. One I’ll have to tell the world about soon.
Tonight though, I plan on crawling into my fluffy bed with a big bowl of oatmeal for dinner and a book. I don’t have the energy for much of anything else.
In the kitchen, I scroll through Twitter while my oatmeal bubbles and cooks. There’s nothing much there aside from the gossip and speculation on how The UnBroken’s tour ended. Maybe Gracyn does have reason to be touchy about the shit in her life. There’s no escape. No way for her to get away from it since Gavin’s disappearance after the last show is all over entertainment news and Twitter.
My issues? I just have to stay away from the world news. And newspapers. And pray that one of my student’s family members doesn’t run into any problems. Because, if Jake’s daddy finds himself in trouble, Jack will be right there in the thick of it as well.
I scoop my steaming oatmeal into a big bowl, sprinkling brown sugar and raisins on top and putting in a dash of cream and shake of cinnamon, and take it to my bedroom. I change into jammies and crawl under the covers. I try to read while eating, but juggling the bowl and holding my Kindle leaves me frustrated, so I give up my book. Not that it was holding my attention, but escaping into another world gives me a much-appreciated reprieve from my thoughts. I seem to be completely stuck on those.
Maybe, instead of grace, I need to give Gracyn some actual space. I have a couple of long weekends coming up, and while I’d still love nothing more than to just skip telling my mama and daddy that I got knocked up, it’s something I need to do in person. Face-to-face so that they know I’m really okay and so that I can just face the music and be done.