by Terri Osburn
“I . . . What?”
“According to your information, your last menstrual cycle was the end of July.”
“I’ve never been regular with that,” she explained. “I mean, I skip months all the time. It’ll show up.”
The doc tilted her head. “Maybe not for another eight months or so.” Rising from the stool, she said, “I’m going to send Nurse Phyllis in to get a urine sample. A quick test and we’ll know for sure.”
“Doctor, we use condoms,” Charley assured her. “Every time. I mean, every single time. I cannot be pregnant.”
“Technically, there’s a two percent chance you could be.” Patting her patient’s knee, she added, “If it makes you feel better, think of it as ruling the possibility out.”
Ready to leap off the exam table and run from the room, Charley grabbed the doc’s arm. “But there is no possibility.”
Sliding her hands into the pockets of her lab coat, the doctor grew serious. “If you’ve had intercourse since your last cycle, I’m afraid there is a possibility, Miss Layton. You can skip the test and leave now, but that won’t change the outcome if you are.”
Right on cue, Charley’s gut rolled and she dashed off the table to the large garbage can against the wall. Since she’d skipped breakfast, there was nothing to come out, resulting in painful dry heaves. Once the sickness passed, she took the paper towels the doctor offered and wiped her mouth. As the towels fell into the trash, she accepted a cup of water and returned to the table.
“Are you ready for the test now?” Dr. Robenzie asked with genuine kindness.
Charley nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Dylan checked his phone for the fifth time. Still no word from Charley. Her appointment had been that morning, and she’d promised to let him know the results. That had been over ten hours ago. Of course, the radio silence sent his imagination soaring. What if it was something serious? What if they’d rushed her into surgery and she hadn’t had time to call him? Would Matty let him know? Something told him that was a big no.
His intention to stream her midday show online had been shot to hell by a last-minute radio visit Mitch only informed him about thirty minutes before they had to be on the air. The station brought in fans for a meet and greet, and suddenly Dylan’s day had been shot.
“You’re on in five, Monroe,” Mitch reminded him. “Unless you’re telling the fans to get out here for the show, put the phone away.”
“I’m expecting news from Charley,” he replied. “She went to the doctor today.”
“I don’t care if she went to the moon today. You’ve got a show to do.”
Shutting down the screen, Dylan stuck the cell behind the speakers. “What is your problem with Charley?”
“Women always cause problems,” he grumbled. “This isn’t the time for you to be getting involved.”
Lightning struck. “This was never about some magazine article, was it, Mitch? You don’t want me with anyone.”
Checking his watch, the manager leaned forward to check out the crowd. “Like I said, this isn’t the time. The crowd’s a good size. Better than last night.”
Many concertgoers didn’t bother showing up for the opening acts, often choosing to tailgate in the parking lot rather than watch a performer they didn’t know do a twenty-minute set.
“I don’t give a shit about the crowd,” Dylan snapped.
“You damn well better, boy. This is what matters,” Mitch growled, pointing to the stage. “Those people out there will make or break you, so you damn well better get your head in the game and put your focus where it belongs.”
Tired of the same old argument, he took a step closer to the old man to make his point thoroughly clear. “I can do this and still have Charley. I’ve told you before, Mitch. You have no say in my personal life. We agreed to keep the relationship quiet to make you happy. To give off some illusion that you insisted on. But once that article is out, this bullshit ends.”
The lights dropped, and Easton said, “We’re up, buddy,” tapping Dylan on the shoulder as he trotted onstage.
Shoving past his manager, Dylan followed his guitarist, reaching center stage as the crowd surged forward with a roar.
“Holy shit, Charley. What are you going to do?”
She’d been asking herself that same question all day. “I have no idea.”
“Are you going to keep it?” Matty asked, which was the toughest question of all.
Now she knew how her mother had felt twenty-five years before. And if her mother had made a different choice, Charley wouldn’t be alive today.
“I think so,” she murmured, hugging the throw pillow tighter.
How she’d gotten through her shift, Charley would never know. Years of training had kicked into autopilot, and the five hours passed as if nothing traumatic had happened. As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down.
Matty flounced onto the couch beside her. “But how are you going to take care of a baby? And what is Dylan going to say? If that manager of his doesn’t like you dating, he sure as hell isn’t going to like this.”
Mitch Levine was the least of Charley’s worries. “I don’t know what Dylan’s going to say. I don’t even know how to tell him,” she admitted. “I mean, the subject of kids came up one time, and he acted as if I’d suggested we sever his arm and sell it for scraps.”
“But he loves you, right? I mean, that should help.”
“Help?” Charley turned sore eyes to her roommate. “He’s launching a career. Dylan isn’t in any position to be a father, and I’m in no position to be a mother.”
“So you aren’t going to keep it?”
“Stop asking that.” Bolting off the couch, Charley marched to the front window and stared into the pouring rain. Fitting weather for a night like this. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Warm hands wrapped around her upper arms as Matty put her chin on Charley’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“We used a condom every time. I kept telling the doctor that, and she smiled this condescending grin, as if I were being naive.”
“Nothing’s foolproof, right?”
Charley sighed. “Except not having sex at all. Which was working really well for me until Dylan came along.”
“Yeah, well. That’s my current method, and I’m here to tell you, it sucks donkey balls.”
Laughter wouldn’t come. “What am I going to do?”
Matty squeezed her arms. “You need to tell Dylan. This isn’t your burden to carry alone.”
“I don’t want to hurt his career. We made a pact,” Charley said. “He’d never ask me to give up radio, and I’d never ask him to give up music.”
“Maybe no one will have to give up anything.”
Now who was being naive? Something had to be sacrificed. Either she gave up the baby or gave up her career. Even if Dylan came around to the idea of starting a family, he wouldn’t be around. Charley would be on her own, if not financially, then physically. She would bear the brunt of the work. The responsibility.
But even knowing the reality, she couldn’t imagine making a different choice than her mother had.
“You should call him,” Matty said.
“This isn’t the kind of news you give over the phone.”
“Where is the tour right now?”
“DC,” she replied. Charley had the schedule memorized. “They move on to New York City next, for two shows over the weekend.”
Matty turned her around. “Flights to New York can’t be that much. We’ll buy you a ticket.”
The we part didn’t go unnoticed. “I doubt I can afford one on such short notice.”
“Let me—”
“I can’t, Matty. But thanks for the offer.” Charley turned back to the window. “I’m not ready, anyway. I need to have answers before I tell him. Figure out how to make things work. For all of us.”
“All right, then. But don’t forget that you have friends here, okay? And not j
ust me. People at the station love you. They’ll want to help.”
Unless someone could turn back time, Charley didn’t see any way for them to help her now. With a nod, she crossed to the stairs and headed for her room.
At the end of the set, Dylan took his final bow, high-fived several fans in the front row, and trotted into the wings, eager to check his phone. Only his phone wasn’t where he’d left it.
“Hey,” he called to one of the roadies. “Did someone pick up my phone?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask around.”
Which he tried to do, but with the set change in progress, no one had time to discuss a missing anything. Bodies hustled on and off the stage as Dylan hunted, wishing he’d gone with something other than a black case. The speakers were rolled away one by one, leaving an open space on the stage and no phone.
“Did one of you pick up my phone?” he asked the band, but none of them had seen it. Spotting the tour manager, he dodged a tech carrying a bass drum on his way to reach her. “Hey, Fran. Did anyone turn in a lost phone?”
She continued to scrutinize her clipboard. “Not tonight, hon.”
Dylan sighed. “Thanks. Will you let me know if they do? It’s an iPhone 7 in a black case.”
“Got it,” she said, making a note at the top of the page.
Continuing to scan the area, he remembered that he’d been talking to Mitch the last time he’d had it. No doubt the manager had feared it would get lost or swiped and had taken the cell with him.
“Fran,” he called. “Have you seen Mitch?”
“Eight minutes to the next act,” she said into her headset. “We need to move.” Orders given, she finally looked Dylan’s way. “He’s on your bus.”
“Thanks!”
Navigating his way through the mayhem, Dylan hurried toward the back entrance only to be cut off by none other than the headliner himself.
“Another good show out there tonight,” Wes Tillman praised. “Glad we got you on this tour, Monroe. I have a feeling a few months from now, you’re going to be a hot commodity.”
High praise indeed. “Thank you, Mr. Tillman.”
“Mr. Tillman is my dad,” the singer quipped. “Call me Wes.”
“Yes, sir. I can do that.” Until tonight, Tillman hadn’t shown much interest in his opening act, and Dylan had assumed he’d never even watched a set. Maybe he’d been wrong. “I’m honored to be included. As a relative unknown, this tour is a great opportunity for me. I’ve enjoyed your music for years, so it’s a privilege to watch you work.”
“Let me guess,” the older man said with a chuckle. “You’ve been listening to me your whole life.”
Dylan smiled. “Not all of it, sir. But most.”
“I get that a lot. Since we have two days coming up in New York, my wife, Harley, is going to meet me there. Maybe take in some sights.” With a tap on Dylan’s arm, he said, “Why don’t you come out to eat with us one night? Meet the missus and talk music.”
Dumbstruck, Dylan mumbled, “I . . . Uh . . . Sure. That would be great.”
Wes nodded. “Then it’s set. Keep up the good work, and you’ve got a nice, long career ahead of you.”
“Right. I’ll do my best.”
As Tillman walked away, Dylan scratched his head, nearly knocking his hat to the ground.
“What happened to you?” Lance asked, coming up behind him.
“Tillman offered to take me to dinner in New York City. He wants to talk music.”
Lance whistled. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Dylan replied, still stunned. “I’m going to talk music with a legend.”
The bass player gave a hoot. “That’s awesome, man. Welcome to the big leagues.”
As his bandmate walked away, Dylan struggled to remember what he’d been doing before Tillman cut him off. “My phone,” he said, jogging toward the exit. “Charley. I need to tell Charley.”
Chapter 22
Charley made it to the end of the week without losing her mind. But barely.
Late Tuesday night, she’d sent Dylan a text that said she was fine. Which technically she was, since pregnancy wasn’t an actual illness. To her surprise, she never received a response. Nor had she heard from him since. No calls. No texts. Nothing.
At the end of her Friday shift, Charley turned over the microphone, packed up her headphones, and raced to her car. She still didn’t intend to share the news—whether good or bad she hadn’t decided yet—over the phone, but she needed to hear his voice.
The call went straight to voice mail.
“Dang it.”
It was four o’clock in New York on a show night, so he was probably doing some kind of publicity and turned off the phone. Once he went back online, she felt certain he’d see the missed call and get in touch. Only he never did.
Lying in bed that night, she couldn’t help herself. Charley checked Dylan’s Instagram first but found nothing new posted since Monday night. So she clicked over to Casey’s account—and wished she hadn’t.
Sprawled out in a corner booth was Dylan, arm around a pretty brunette who would have been in his lap had she crawled any closer. They were both laughing, the table in front of them littered with bottles and empty glasses. No umbrellas this time. Charley supposed New York City was too sophisticated for such tacky drink accessories. A check of the time stamp revealed the picture had been posted in the last half hour.
“I guess when you’re having that much fun, you can’t be bothered to call your pregnant girlfriend back home.”
To be fair, Dylan didn’t know she was pregnant, but still. He should have called. Or sent a text. At this point, she’d take a smoke signal.
Since she knew he wasn’t too tied up to take a call, Charley rang his number. And again got his voice mail. This time, she decided to leave a message, only Dylan’s normal greeting had been replaced by a programmed computer voice letting her know that the person at this number wasn’t available. And then the line went dead.
“What the hell?” she said to the screen, dialing the number again only to get the same result. Tossing her phone onto the bed, she crossed her arms. “Stupid technology.”
Feeling a pout coming on, she snatched up the phone and checked Facebook. Scrolling her newsfeed, she saw that a cousin had bought a new car, a politician had done something underhanded (big shocker), and a Hollywood socialite had dumped her cheating boyfriend.
“You tell him, honey,” Charley said aloud. “Men are assholes.”
Concerned she was starting to sound like Matty, she scrolled a little more and bolted upright in bed. There, on her screen, was Dylan Monroe, sauntering into a New York City restaurant with the same brunette on his arm.
“You son of a . . .” Words faded as she read the headline.
Rising Star Dylan Monroe Takes Potential New Love to New York City Hot Spot
That rat-sucking, good-for-nothing piece of shit. Five weeks on tour and all his I-love-you crap goes out the window? Really? Charley was that easy to toss away? And he didn’t even have the guts to tell her so. What did he think? That she wouldn’t find out? Cameras caught everything. That’s what Mitch had said. They couldn’t be seen together in the wrong places because cameras caught everything.
“Dammit!” she screamed, slamming the phone onto the bed as she leaped out of it. “Such an asshole.”
Matty sprinted into the room. “What is it? Is there a bug?” she asked, prancing near the door.
“I wouldn’t call a bug an asshole, Matilda,” Charley sniped. “It’s Dylan. He has a ‘potential new love,’” she explained, using air quotes. “The son of a bitch has a new sucker on the line, and he doesn’t even have the balls to tell me I’ve been replaced.”
“Are you sure?” Matty asked, reaching for her arm.
“I saw the picture online.”
“Being on the Internet doesn’t make it true. You know that.”
Charley grabbed the phone and swiped to Casey’s Instagram. “Ther
e. Right there,” she said, smacking the screen. “That’s Casey’s account, not some headline-seeking reporter. That looks pretty damn true to me.”
Cast in the uncomfortable role of devil’s advocate, Matty said, “They could be friends. Someone said something funny and they’re all laughing. This could be totally innocent.”
Running her hands through her hair, Charley paced the floor. “She’s in his lap, Matty. His arm is around her.”
“His arm is across the back of the booth.”
Vertigo setting in, she collapsed into the chair in the corner and rubbed her temples. “He won’t take my calls or return my texts. I may be naive, but I’m not an idiot. Dylan is through with me.” Saying the words brought reality crashing around her like a summer downpour. “He doesn’t love me, Matty. He never did.”
Tears blinded her vision as Charley rocked forward and back, arms curled against her stomach.
“Oh, honey. You don’t know that.” Matty hit her knees and brushed the hair from Charley’s face. “Tours are crazy. That stupid manager probably has him running in a million different directions. Wait and see. I bet he calls you tomorrow, hungover and fuming about some website suggesting he has a new girlfriend.”
Shaking her head, Charley refused to be a fool any longer. “You were right. They all cheat. Every last one of them.” Her voice hitched on a hiccup. “I should have listened.” Holding a hand to her stomach, she whined, “And now look what I’ve done.”
Matty held her roommate as she cried. “You aren’t in your right mind, honey. You’ve got hormones playing hell with your common sense. Give the man a chance to explain.”
Charley wanted to believe. Fought to find a voice or reason somewhere in her swirling mind that would put all the fears and worst scenarios to rest. But a week of growing anxiety, mixed with crazy-making hormones and an overdose of every emotion under the sun, smothered any glimmer of hope.
Lungs singed and nose burning, she ran out of steam somewhere around two in the morning. But her last thought before drifting off brought another round of tears.