by Laney Wylde
Third, would my scholarships still be good if I postponed a year or took a semester off to have the baby?
Fourth, could I be any more of a small-town cliché—
Wait. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
Jeff hadn’t used a condom.
I sat back against the bathtub, my head in my hands and that damn plastic stick pinned between my fingers.
Jeff’s baby was growing inside me.
That was enough to finally make me barf. I angry hurled into the bowl, the kind of puking that popped the capillaries in my cheeks and eyelids. I flushed the toilet and sat back on the floor, my face clammy and sweaty, my mouth bitter with sickness.
I heard a knock.
“Sawyer? You okay?” Jake asked from outside the door.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Fine.” What was I supposed to tell Jake? He had done everything in his power not to murder my stepdad. I wasn’t sure anything would stop him now.
“Are you sick?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Can I come in?”
“You want to see me puking?”
He laughed. “Can I get you anything?”
A time machine would be wonderful, thank you.
“No,” I moaned again. I shoved the pregnancy test back in the box, then the box into the pouch pocket of my pullover hoodie. From the floor, I reached for the door to crack it open. “I need to run to the store. Do you need anything?”
“No.” He stared down at my pitiful position on the linoleum. “Let me do that. You should lie down. What do you need?”
“Ginger ale, please.”
“Sure, babe.” He squatted in front of me to kiss my forehead. “Do you want me to help you into bed or something?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay here.”
I waited until I heard his motorcycle drive out of earshot before making my way down the stairs. I hunched over my tightening gut through the garage to the side yard to dispose of my little secret in the outside trash can, even burying it underneath a couple of bags of trash just to be safe. After, I went inside and trudged up the stairs to bed.
It wasn’t until my head felt the relief of the soft pillow and the weight of the covers over me that I realized how tired I was. Exhausted. I wanted to just huddle there and sleep—wake up to find none of this had happened. If only life were that gentle. But it wasn’t. It was harsh, unrelenting, and cruel, and I had to do something to get Jeff’s spawn the hell out of me.
I searched for the nearest Planned Parenthood on my phone. Seventy-five miles away for one that offered abortions. Great. How was I supposed to drive the three hours back from Ashland after an abortion? I scanned their site further. Abortion pill. Okay, that could work. I could just bring it home and take it. No big deal. Okay, I clicked on the tab titled, “What can I expect if I take the abortion pill?” I scanned the long list of symptoms on the page. Yikes. That seemed miserable. Jake would find out. Unless I stayed with Tatum. Or in a hotel in Ashland. There had to be a way.
I heard the front door creak open, and Jake walk up the stairs. I blackened my phone and shoved it under the pillow. He knocked on the already-open door. “How are you feeling?”
“Not much better.” He put a cold twenty-ounce bottle of ginger ale on the bedside table, just in my line of site. I envied the drops of condensation sliding down the icy plastic, needing that coolness on my forehead, on the nape of my sweaty neck. The nausea returned with Jake’s presence and the flare of panic he induced in me. What was I going to tell him? What would he do if he found out I hid an abortion from him? Should I just tell him? No, that was stupid. I was just sick. That was all he needed to know.
He pushed the hair back from my cheek. “Babe, you look awful.” When he said that, I realized I was still hunkered around my abdomen with my eyes shut. “You don’t feel warm, so I doubt you have a fever…”
I felt my fingers for my ring and twisted it around. Jake and I didn’t have secrets, except a few he let me keep about my past. This wasn’t a good one to start with. I didn’t think I could bear living with it for the rest of my life. So, I just blurted out a pathetic, “I’m pregnant.”
Jake’s eyes widened, the brown in them melting almost to liquid. He ran his hand over his face, then let it cover his mouth as he stared at me. A few seconds passed. Was he going to say something? Anything?
“But—” I started.
He interrupted, “Holy shit.” He dropped his hand from his chin. “We’re having a baby?” His voice was soft—scared and shocked and full of hope. I could tell his mind was racing like mine, but his was over the next few years instead of just the next couple of days.
“Jake…” I shook my head and cringed.
“What’s wrong? Is it college? We’ll figure it out so you can—”
“No, Jake.” I raised my voice. “It’s not—” I took a deep breath. “I think it’s Jeff’s.”
He crossed his arms and didn’t hesitate to object. “No, no. It’s not Jeff’s. No way. You and I have sex all the time, and he—” Jake squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “No.” He dropped his hands to his thighs with a clap. “It’s mine. I’m sure of it.”
Ah, that irritating optimism of the unbroken. It was hard to argue with.
“Okay, fine. That’s a nice thought, but what if it’s not?”
“There’s no ‘if’—”
“Jake!”
“Fine.” He sat on the edge of the bed, and then leaned his hand on the other side of my hips. “I’d never ask you to give up your baby. I’ll be there if you keep it. For all of it. I’ll change diapers and wake up in the middle of the night and rock it to sleep. I can sell my bike to help us pay for the baby stuff we’ll need. Don’t they need a lot of stuff?” he asked as if I knew more than he did. “Look, it’s mine even if it’s not, okay? But…” he breathed. “If that’s too hard for you, I totally understand. We can find a family or an agency or—I don’t know how it all works, but I can learn. If you don’t want to deal with any of it, I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
I bit my lip. “Jake, I can’t do eight more months of this.”
His face fell. “Sawyer, no.” It was a plea, but it was firm. It was obvious in that moment he would hold his ground.
I sat up. “Think for a second, please! You really think we’ll be able to give this baby up without Jeff knowing? Without him fighting for custody?”
“You think any judge in their right mind would give him cust—”
“Yes! He’s charming. Everyone gives him the benefit of the doubt. There’s no proof he raped me. They’ll just have proof it’s his.”
“If it’s his.”
“It’s his. Having this baby could mean being stuck with Jeff for the rest of my life.”
“Sawyer, you’re being totally irrational. That’s not going to happen.”
“And what if he abuses her, too? I’m not putting my kid through that.”
“So it’s better to kill her?”
“Rather than her grow up with Jeff as her dad, yes.”
Jake stroked my waist. “Babe, I know you’ve been through hell—”
“You don’t know anything about hell.”
“Then tell me!”
“I’ve told you enough for you to be on my side. I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this.”
“I’m just asking you to do what your parents did for you.”
“What?”
“Seriously, Sawyer, you of all people should know better! You were a condom accident, right?”
“So?”
“So, first, you know they happen. You know it could be mine. And if it is, I get a say. Second, your dad gave up everything to be your dad. I bet he never even thought about aborting you, but they could have. They were younger than us.”
“My dad? Really, Jake?”
“It’s not an option.” He crossed his arms across his chest again. “I can’t believe we’re even having this d
iscussion,” he said with a flicking shrug of his shoulders.
“I can’t believe you’re making me keep a baby from a rape that was your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You said…” Cue Jake imitation. “‘Oh, babe, stay in town. Finish high school. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.’ You really fucked that one up.”
“How is it my fault that you refused to move in with me in February, that you didn’t go to my fight, or that you got shitfaced at that party?”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?”
His whole face tightened with regret, his eyes and mouth closing as he dragged his hand from forehead to chin. “Of course not. You don’t think I feel awful I didn’t stop this? But I couldn’t.”
I stared down at my hands a long time before whispering, “I know.” After a quivering inhale, I added, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not the baby’s fault, either.” He took my hand in his. “Please, Sawyer, please don’t do this.”
“I can’t have another reminder of that night. Or of those two years.”
“You think killing it is going to make you forget?” He brushed my hair behind my shoulder. “You have a chance to make something beautiful out of this horrible thing that happened to you. Please, babe, take it.”
I’d forgotten what it felt like—loneliness. But it was the only thing I was guaranteed as I lay in the Ashland motel bleeding.
Childless.
What a strange feeling to regret something even as I did it—the sheer denial that masked itself as courage, the rush of relief once the decision was final, and the cavernous sorrow that sank in within the hour.
Part of me didn’t believe it was real. I was gone. Jake probably got home from training a couple of hours ago and found his room cleared of my stuff, my existence erased except the emerald ring I left on his nightstand, my phone in his kitchen trash, and a note saying, “I love you, but I can’t keep it.”
We had done nothing but fight for two weeks, spending our nights silent in the same bed, me making a Plan B that excluded him, his thoughts shut away. It made me feel better thinking he probably expected I’d leave the day after graduation—better as in it felt better to stand in fire for four seconds than for five.
11
JUNE 2017
A week passed, and the blood turned from red to pink. I was in a questionably clean Los Angeles motel with bars on the window, trying to decide how to fill my summer before the school year started. My bank account was dwindling with the cost of lodging, food, and hooch. I would need a job soon, preferably one that would help me pay the out-of-state tuition during the school year.
I called Jake twice last night from my burner—a burner to erase my trail from Jeff and my mom. Jake didn’t answer the first time, so I left a voicemail to let him know that was my new number. He didn’t call back. I called again a couple of hours and a half bottle of tequila later, weeping and begging for forgiveness. No word.
* * *
I got a studio apartment for the summer in South Central. There were iron bars over the windows here, too. There was just enough money left to get through July. After that, I would be on the streets.
Every day that I searched for jobs, I drove past a nude strip club. And every day that I got turned down as a barista, tutor, or assistant, a grey thought lingered in my mind. Stripping was just dancing, right? I was a great dancer. I was busty, athletic, and dull to the sensation of being degraded. Oh, and in desperate need of cash. This would pay cash immediately. I could do it until I found something better. What was the big deal? I wouldn’t be a stripper. It would just be something I did to get by for a few weeks. Then I’d go to school and kick ass at that like I always did. No one would know about the summer where I took my clothes off to pay rent.
After the fifteenth job rejection, I drank up the nerve to call Jake. That familiar voice rang through when it went to voicemail. “Hey, this is Jake. I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m punching someone in the face. Leave a message!” Then the beep I knew was coming but still made my heart race.
I sat there a long moment deciding what to say. Out tumbled, “Jake, if you want me back, call me by eight tomorrow night. I love you. I’m sorry for what I did and for what I have to do now.” I hung up.
12
SEPTEMBER 2017
“You’re Cash, right?” I asked the guy sitting against the wall as I slowed down on my way through the hall of our dorm. I had lived here now for two weeks, and I still felt like a dripping-in-diamonds heiress popping champagne off the back of a yacht. There were no roaches lurking by the bathroom sink here like at my South Central apartment, no bars on the windows, and high-pressure hot water for every shower. I couldn’t think of anything better, because there wasn’t anything better. The first shower I took here, I must have stood in the stall for forty-five minutes until my skin was bright red and pruny. Turned out, Los Angeles wasn’t all homeless addicts, sweaty air, and midnight gunshots. This must be how the other half live.
“Yeah.” My neighbor cocked his head as he searched my face. “I’m so sorry, but—”
“Sawyer.” I winked. “It’s okay. We’re all meeting a ton of new people.” To be fair, the first time we met, I was in a towel, wet hair clinging to my bare skin after one of those decadent showers. He was in his jammies, his short, dark curls messy, doing a half-conscious shuffle to the bathroom for a three AM tinkle. And, as it was three AM, unarguably the worst hour of the twenty-four, he was quick to forget it.
This time, though, his lips curved sweetly, a boyish quirk on an otherwise masculine face, and stood to shake my hand. I hadn’t noticed the first time we met how tall he was. “Nice to meet you, Sawyer.” My name coated his lips like sticky brown sugar. Southerner for sure.
I smiled and shifted my book bag to my other shoulder. “Do you want to borrow my desk? You know, until you have access to yours?” I was feeling generous, after all, spoiled with dorm life. I had my own bed and desk now. There was plenty to go around.
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” I waved my hand down, and then headed toward the door to unlock it. Tilting my head, I studied the loose leaf and textbook he was gathering. “Physics?”
“Yeah.”
“Engineering or do you hope to be the next Stephen Hawking? I mean, without the crippling, degenerative disease.”
He laughed. “Engineering. Aerospace, ideally.”
“Sounds amazing.”
“What about you?” He slung his backpack over his shoulder as we passed through my door.
“Haven’t decided yet,” I lied.
“First quarter?”
“Yep.” I dropped my bag on my bare but made bed and hopped onto it.
“You’ve got time. Is this your desk?” He pointed to the one bordering my bed, the one that wasn’t covered in books, fast food wrappers, and half-empty coffee cups. Nicole, my roommate, was either a slob or conducting some sort of biological experiment with the dairy remaining in those paper cups. Or, possibly, a psychological one to see how long someone as uptight as me could survive in her natural habitat.
Within the first three minutes of our study session, it was obvious I would not be able to concentrate with Cash around. He started drumming on the desk with his mechanical pencil, the lead inside making a shick-click sound as it rattled against the plastic. It drove me nuts. Over and over—thump-shick-click, thump-thump-shick-click, as he tapped the eraser on the page with one hand and held his forehead in the other. It must have been what he did when he was stuck on a problem because his paper was covered in harsh indents and eraser shavings. I sent a sideways glance to his textbook from my bed, a different one than he had in the hall. Linear Algebra. Easiest class in the world. At least, easiest of all the algebras. “Cash?”
“Yeah?”
I took a breath to revel in the silence that followed. Ah. Two full seconds of no thump-shick-click.” What problem are you stuck on?”
&n
bsp; He narrowed his eyes on me. “You know how to do Linear Algebra?”
Doesn’t everyone?
“Number fourteen?”
He nodded.
“Have you tried a ‘suppose not’ proof?”
“‘S’pose not?’” In the south, it must be too much effort to pronounce all the syllables in a word. Was his sweet tea not strong enough today?
“Proof by contradiction.” I reached out for his pencil and notebook. He surrendered both.
I wrote… S’pose not, and then the opposite of the statement he was trying to prove with the two-by-two matrices given in the text. “That’ll get you the most elegant proof. Never do brute force when you can use ‘s’pose not.’” I winked and handed his notebook back, then took a hesitant breath before returning the pencil.
“Thanks?”
“I turned in that homework today, so let me know if you need more help.”
He stared at me a moment with knitted eyebrows. “Thanks,” he repeated. I was starting to get offended by his shocked expressions at my apparent intelligence. What about me looked stupid?
We both heard Cash’s door open and someone leave. I whispered, “So, is it the same girl every time or—”
“So far this year. We’ll see.”
“You ever lock him out?”
“No, I don’t hook up.” Well, that was disappointing to hear. It had been months since I had sex with a decent guy. Cash was striking with perfect hair, and I could listen to him talk all day. He seemed like he would actually be nice to me, care if I liked his hands and lips on my skin, and not just see how fast he could get off.
“No, I mean, just for the hell of it. Even the scales, you know?”
He gathered up his books. “That’s kind of a good idea. Thanks again, Sawyer.”
“Anytime.” I smiled.
By the way he smiled back, I could tell I was right about him.
13