by Jane Anthony
I sit in silence stewing in my own advice from a few months back. “I’ll still be around, E.”
“Don’t bother. You go live your life. I can handle things on my own. I’ve been doing it for the last six years,” she spits in a huff.
“Erika, don’t be like that,” I start to shout, but she slams the door in my face, cutting me off before I can finish.
She trots up the walkway, light hair flying around her head as she ducks into the shadows of the house.
For a moment, I think about going after her. The last few months of my life pass before my eyes. My mom, Erika . . . Wren. Three women I love to the depths of my soul. Three lives fucked up because they had me in them.
With an anguished sigh, I pull away from the house and say goodbye to Creek Falls for the second time.
CHAPTER 33
Wren
“THIS WILL BE COLD.”
Dr. Sims squirts the gel on my stomach in a small, circular pattern. I gasp, despite the warning she just gave me.
“Jesse isn’t joining us?”
“Not today,” I say, holding back the sobs burning my throat. After two-and-a-half weeks, the sound of his name still reduces me to tears. I can’t even bring myself to change the sheets, can’t look at the writer’s journal without breaking down, and just forget about milkshakes. They’re pretty much ruined for life.
I tell myself it’s the hormones raging inside my blood that make my eyes water whenever memories of his voice whisper into my brain, but the truth is, living without him is akin to walking through mud. The ache is physical. It hurts right down to my bones, so much so that the simple act of walking is too exhausting a feat to muster.
We thought this would work.
We were kidding ourselves.
The protective paper crinkles as I lie back on the bench. Dr. Sims waves the wand over the growing hump that gets larger day by day. She takes her time, going over every light gray blob with precise measurements before asking the big question.
“Do you want to know the gender?”
Jesse and I had this appointment on the schedule for weeks. He buzzed with excitement as he crossed off the days until December twenty-fifth, when he packed his shit and left.
“No.” My eyes sting as the word flits from my lips. It’s not the same without him here. A brief flicker of hope burned when I thought Asher might actually get his shit together and make this appointment, but true to form, his career trumps everything else.
The doctor stands and wipes my stomach with a tissue. “How about this? I’ll write it down and seal it in an envelope. You and Jesse can always open it later if you change your mind.”
I nod.
“Okay, then. Everything looks good. Your baby is growing a little on the large side, but it’s nothing to worry about. We’ll just keep an eye on it.”
“Sounds good.”
She helps me off the bench, and I waddle out. Exhaustion slows my pace by the time I get to my car, but I don’t want to go home. The silence screams as I open my door. A deafening wail that won’t let up. I hear it in my sleep. The sound of loneliness, emptiness. It burrowed inside me, and there it stayed.
I find myself at The Grind instead. Work has been my saving grace. Anything to stop my relentless mind from picking apart every solitary detail of the day he left. It’s a never-ending story that rotates in my skull. Scene after scene, I keep trying to twist the plot and make it change, but the synopsis stays the same.
Allison stands at the counter balancing one ketchup bottle on top of the other. They call this marrying the ketchups, a term I always found silly. How is pouring one bottle into another a good synonym for marriage when one is inevitably left empty inside?
“Hey, doll,” she greets as she sees me approach.
I trudge to a stool at the counter and pull myself up. “Quiet today, huh?”
“It was busier before. How are you feeling?”
“Bloated and tired. You?”
She chuckles. “Same actually. I’m retaining water like the Titanic.”
Allison’s retort brings a smile to my face. “I never thought I’d actually miss having my period.”
“Aww. You’re halfway through, babe. Eyes on the prize,” she says, leaning on her elbow to reach across the counter and pat my stomach. “Oh! Speaking of prizes . . . you have news for me?”
“I didn’t find out.”
Disappointment whisks across her features. “Why not?”
“We were supposed to find out together.” I try to shrug it off, but as the tears broach the dam, they refuse to be controlled any longer and spill over my lashes, cascading down my cheeks. I swipe a napkin from the counter and cover my face. “Jesus Christ, I need this kid outta me so I can get my shit together and move on.”
“Why don’t you just call him?”
“I can’t. This responsibility was never his to begin with. I just have to put on my big girl panties and get over it.”
Allison’s dark eyes grow soft. “I understand.”
I pull a deep breath into my lungs and blow it out with a sigh.
Her gaze drops to the watch on her wrist. “It’s almost the end of my shift. What do you say we blow out of here and go do something? Take your mind off Jesse for a bit.”
“I’d like that.”
“Go home and pretty yourself up, cupcake. I’ll come pick you up in an hour.”
I match her bright smile with a wry grin. “Ooh, you know how much I love it when you call me cupcake.”
“I know what my girl likes.” She clicks her cheek with a wink. “Now scoot. Lemme finish up here.”
Using the counter for support, I slide off the stool. “Here.” After digging the envelope from the back pocket of my Motherhood Maternity jeans, I chuck it on the aged laminate. “Knock yourself out,” I tell her before heading for the exit.
The ride home is nondescript. I ease my foot off the gas, slowing to a stop as I pass the community mailbox. The keys jangle in my fingers. I work the lockbox open and grab the banded stack of bills and pamphlets and throw them on the passenger seat before continuing the short ride to my door.
With the mail under my arm, I let myself in. The ugly silence smacks me in the face. At least when Mischief was around, the quiet didn’t seem so deafening. Once my sanctuary, my home is now another reminder of how utterly alone I am.
I throw my mail on the counter and kick my sneakers into the corner with a thud. A large, white envelope catches my eye. I furrow my brow as I pull it from the pile and slide my finger under the thick flap.
“You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of Ryan Bomber and Leigh Bateman,” I read aloud. My thumb grazes the raised lettering, my free hand sitting atop my stomach. “May fifteenth.” My thoughts return to Jesse. Ryan, Mick, and Jesse have been best friends practically since birth. My gaze scans the fancy font from top to bottom a second time. If I got an invite, so did he.
Hesitancy sits in my gut like a rock. Rifling through the included materials, I find the RSVP card placed in the back. A menagerie of feelings bubbles to the surface. As much as I’d like to go, it’s not worth the risk. I can’t see him again. Not when my heart is still so fragile.
I set the invitation on the counter and move about my bedroom, getting ready for Allison. Staring at my closet, I wonder, how does one dress for a night out with her friend when she’s five months pregnant?
Eventually, I decide on an oversized sweater and a pair of black leggings. The chunky pink knit hangs off one shoulder as I stand in the mirror and pick at the seams. Dark circles line both eyes. I dig through my makeup bag for a concealer stick, but it’s a pointless pursuit. Drugstore cosmetics can’t hide the fact that I’m exhausted and miserable, but I sweep it across my skin anyway, hoping for a miracle.
A rapid knock booms through the house. “It’s open!” I yell, still fussing with my hair. The light red tendrils appear lifeless and dull. I rub some mousse between my palms and sweep my fingers through, hoping to
add some volume to these comatose tresses. So much for the pregnancy glow. I look like a corpse and feel just as rotten. Yet another reason I can’t go to that wedding.
Allison’s voice rings down the hall. “Hey, girl! I’m early.”
“I can see that,” I call, turning away from the morbid sight of my own reflection.
“Who are Ryan and Leigh?” Allison materializes in the doorway, looking perfect as usual in flare-legged jeans and a simple white tank paired with a flirty cropped cardigan.
“You look amazing,” I whine, tearing my eyes from the hideous sight of my own reflection. “Ryan’s an old friend from high school.”
The bed bounces under my weight as I plop down on the corner and pull on the imitation Ugg boots I got from Target. Of course, Alison’s feet are adorned with the cutest pair of wedge sneakers, but my arches scream at the mere thought.
“You gonna go to the wedding?”
“No.”
She lifts a brow. “You think Jesse might be there?”
My gaze drops to the furry seams of my knock-off boots. “Maybe I should wear my Converse instead.”
Allison rolls her eyes and pushes off the doorway. “Ew. Way to change the subject. Your boots are fine. I have something for you in the kitchen,” she announces, then disappears back down the hallway.
I follow suit and stop short at the cupcake sitting on the counter. “A cupcake for my cupcake,” she singsongs, pushing it to the edge.
“What is this?” I furrow my brows, my gaze flitting between my friend and the chocolate confection.
“Before I left The Grind, I asked Marcio to fill the center with cream. Blue? Pink? We’ll find out together.”
A wave of emotion sluices through me. “Al . . .”
She takes my hands and sweeps her thumbs across the backs of both. “Your life doesn’t stop because Jesse stopped being a part of it.”
I keep my gaze trained on the cupcake as if it’s a predator preparing to strike.
“You can do this, honey. I may not be Jesse, but I still love you and support you. You need this.”
Her words wash over me with the sad truth. For the last two weeks, I’ve locked myself in a box, unwilling to face reality. This baby is coming, with or without him. And I’ll be fine, with or without him. I need to learn to embrace the very things I’m running from.
With a heavy heart, I lift the fork off the counter and stab into the center. Chocolate crumbles fall around the Styrofoam takeout container. I look at Allison before tearing it open. She urges me forward with a hopeful smile and a red-rimmed gleam in her warm coffee stare.
I twist my wrist, and half the cupcake falls away.
I got my answer.
Tears spring in my eyes fast and fierce. I bring my hand to my trembling lips, saltwater rivulets rolling down my cheeks as I stare at the dollop that seals my fate. “It’s a boy.”
Allison squeals and throws her arms around me. “Congratulations, sweetie. I’m so proud of you.” Pulling away, she runs her knuckle under her thick, black lashes. “Let’s go celebrate. Where do you wanna go?”
Through all the kicks and nausea and heartburn and cravings, nothing made this pregnancy feel as real as it does right now. I can see his face clear as crystal, and I want to do everything right by him.
My son.
“I want to start my baby registry.”
A bold smile splits her lips. “That’s my girl.”
“I gotta pee first,” I announce. “Meet you outside?”
Allison nods as I head to the bathroom to do my business before going out to her idling car. “I have to make a super quick stop before heading to Babies ‘R’ Us, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I secure my seat belt carefully under my belly as she weaves through the complex and finds her way out.
A blue USPS drop box sits on the corner of the road. She slows to a stop and rolls down her window, leaning out far enough to drop a small envelope in the slot.
“What’s that?” I ask, as she throws the car back in drive.
“Your RSVP card. You’re going to that wedding.”
“What?” My eyes bug from their sockets. Panic festers in my chest. “Go back!”
But Allison only laughs at my horror. “No can do. Fishing it out now would be a felony, sister.”
Clutching my temples, I rock forward. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”
“You can’t avoid him forever. You need closure. You’ll never get over him otherwise. And if he doesn’t go, you’ll stuff your face at the buffet anyway. Win-win.”
My surge of empowerment deflates like a balloon. “What if he doesn’t want to see me?” As soon as the question passes my lips, more what-ifs appear like VH1 Pop-up Videos.
What if he refuses to talk to me?
What if he pretends what we were never happened?
What if he’s there with someone else?
I don’t think I could live with that.
“Then we’ll go outside and key his car.”
A ball of laughter cracks from my chest. “You put yourself down as my plus one, didn’t you?”
“Fuck yeah, I did,” she replies with a hearty snicker.
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“You wish.”
She takes her hand off the wheel for a split second to pat my leg. “All joking aside, you need this. And whatever happens, I’ll be there to support you. Okay?”
I nod, but the fear of coming face to face with him again holds my throat in its evil grip and won’t let go as the questions piling up in my brain haunt me like the plague.
What if he doesn’t miss me the way I miss him?
What if he doesn’t care?
What if he’s still mad when I show my face?
What if . . .
What if . . .
What if . . .
The constant what-ifs are sucking my will to live. I’ll drown in them before May arrives.
CHAPTER 34
Jesse
FIRST DAY OF SPRING, my ass.
This winter cold is never-ending. A tundra of icy misery that numbs me to my core. It’s fitting, I guess. Three months on Mark’s rancid futon have not been kind, but I’ve been saving for a down payment on something better. A place to call my own. Something I’ve never had.
Arctic wind thrashes through my flannel coat as I pile the last of my tools in the bed of my truck. I flip up the collar to protect my neck, shivering as I plop into the driver’s side.
“Hey!” Mark’s voice booms through my closed window. I grab the handle and crank it down just enough to see what he wants.
“Half-price well drinks at Jimbo’s during happy hour. You in?” He pulls a wool cap down over his disheveled salt-and pepper mane, making it slick across his bushy brows. “Some whiskey glasses’ll do you good.”
Wren’s image comes to mind. Her perfect face, glowing and happy, smiling up at him. The alcohol serves as a temporary distraction, but no matter how much I try to drown it away, I can’t seem to get it out of my head.
Especially today.
I wonder if she ever thinks about me. If she even knows today’s my birthday, or if it’s just another day on her calendar. Either way, I hope she’s happy. That’s all I wanted for her. Every decision I’ve made over the past three months bears her name. I bleed for her.
“Sure, dude. Meet you over there.” I crank the window back up and start the truck.
The heater blows cold air in my face. I turn it down, pointing it to the floorboards until it slowly grows warm. This rusty old Ford is next on the chopping block. The seat where she used to sit is a cruel taunt. The scent of her perfume has long since dwindled, but I still live with the ghost of her beside me every time I close the door.
Broken neon blinks across the front of the bar: J, M, B, & O, the I and S long since burnt out. I find a spot in the back and throw the truck in park, wrestling with the violent bluster as I kick open the door. Darkness pulls me from
the light outside. The onset of spring brings longer days, but I long for the dingy squalor of night to soothe the ache that lives in my heart. It moved in shortly after I moved out.
The unquenchable thirst rots on my tongue. My boots scuffle as I trudge to the bar and fall onto a leather-bound backless barstool. “A beer and a shot of Jack,” I grumble to the bartender.
I glance down the line of hunched-over backs at the bar. Jimbo’s is dead this time of day. Most likely the reason for the half-price sale, but I didn’t come here for cheap, sugary rum and Cokes.
I came to forget.
I came to drink her away as best I could, fully knowing I’ll still pass out with her on my mind and wake the same way tomorrow morning. It’s an ugly cycle that never ends. I had it all in the palm of my hands, and I let petty jealousy and insecurity rob me of it. A life stolen by my own demons.
Not a day goes by that I don’t take out my phone and start dialing the numbers, but I just can’t bring myself to press the last one. I just want to hear her voice. The sweet melody of my name slipping between her teeth, and the soft sigh trailing off the end of her I love you.
But I fucked it up.
I fuck everything up.
I down the shot, letting the acrid sting of straight whiskey burn fire and hell straight to my gullet before taking a strong swig of my beer. The crisp taste soothes the bite, but I order a second and shoot it right after.
A rectangle beam of softening light blasts through the door as Mark enters. It closes with a heavy thud, enveloping the small bar in darkness again. He sidles up next to me, throwing his leg over the stool. “Gimme a scotch and soda,” he barks at the barkeep in his gravelly baritone. A brass pipe edges the lip of the heavy bar top. He wraps his hand around it, leaning back to survey the room. “Not a lot of action tonight.”
“You care about anything besides getting your pole wet?” I grumble and bring my glass to my lips.