by Laura Drake
At fifteen, the door opens, and the doctor steps in.
“Do I have anything?” My arms wrap around my womb, as if shielding it from the news. “STDs, I mean?”
She’s reading her clipboard. “We won’t know for two to three days. The receptionist will call you with the results.” She looks up and studies me. “Are you aware that you’re pregnant?”
“I’m not.” My heart stutters to a gallop. A mistake in the lab.
“I assure you, you are. The urine test was positive. You’re about four weeks along. We’ll do a blood test as well, but—”
“No!” My voice bounces off the too-close walls. “That’s impossible. I took the morning-after pill. I bought it at a drugstore. I threw away the receipt but…” What, like a receipt will prove you’re not pregnant? My brain feels tased.
“Levonorgestrel is about sixty-five percent effective.”
“What? I didn’t know that. Why don’t they tell you that?”
“Did you vomit within two hours of taking it? That lowers the efficacy as well.”
“I…” I remember heaving my breakfast on the side of the road on the way back to Unforgiven.
Her look sharpens. “Will you be taking this pregnancy full term? Because if not, we can schedule—”
I don’t hear the rest, because I’m out the door.
I drive, unaware of where I am, or where I’m going. I can use new math, old math, or a supercomputer—the answer is the same. No way this is Austin’s baby.
And he’s a whiz at math.
My brain scrabbles for a way out. I don’t know why my town was originally named Unforgiven, but it sure hasn’t changed much since then. Unmarried pregnancies aren’t unheard of, but our town square isn’t the only thing behind the times.
I was voted Class Sweetheart, Student Council President, Rodeo Queen—the unelected Girl-Next-Door of the town. I’ve never stopped to consider the responsibilities that came along with that.
That Carly is history.
When this gets out (and it always gets out in a small town) I’m, at best, a fool. In the reality TV version, I’m a total loser.
Surely Jess and my posse would stand behind me. If I somehow can find the guts to tell them.
I know there’s another option. But even if I could ignore my religion, all I’ve wanted my whole life is a houseful of babies. Could I really have an abortion? I don’t know. But one thing’s sure: That decision is only part of the future bearing down on me like the old 954 freight that used to run through Unforgiven.
A whiny voice in the back of my brain whispers, It would solve your problems. You could go to Albuquerque to have it done. No one would ever know.
Except me, of course. But could I live with myself?
You don’t even know who the father is. He could have bad genes. Schizophrenia! No one would blame you —
Right. Except me.
But the voice is right about one thing. An abortion would solve my problems. Well, a bunch of them, anyway. But I can’t make a decision that huge when I’m in a state. I’ll think about it later.
A horn blats, and I realize the light I wasn’t aware of stopping at has gone green.
The radioactive reality drifts down, burning everything, exposing the worst yet. Austin is lost to me forever. I didn’t realize until just now, but somewhere, deep inside, I held hope that we’d get back together. He’s an old-fashioned guy, with morals as rigid as the walls of the First Baptist Church. Even if he could accept (eventually) that I slept with another man, could he ever love the result of it?
Wait. Everyone’s going to assume the baby is Austin’s! OhGod-ohgod-ohmygod, I have to tell him. Before anyone guesses I’m pregnant. How do you start a conversation like that, especially with a proud, macho guy who rides one-ton crazed animals for a living? A small caterpillar of sympathy squirms in my chest. Austin may not be perfect, but he doesn’t deserve this.
But an abortion…Internet photos I can’t click away from fast enough hit my brain in living color.
Could I raise a baby alone? What the heck do I know about being a mother? Could I even love a baby that was conceived from the biggest mistake of my life? Would I always look at it and remember that night?
More fallout settles, and I moan. My worst fear, two months ago, was being alone. No Austin, no homestead house, no white dress. Living a future way different than I’d planned; a scary prospect when you’ve never even considered there was a Plan B, much less implemented it.
If only I could run away, to start over somewhere else. Like those people you read about who disappear and are presumed dead, only to be spotted years later, kicked back somewhere warm, sipping umbrella drinks.
If I’m going to borrow dreams, I’ll take that one.
God, I know you won’t give me more than I can handle, but this time, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. Someone stronger.
My skin feels too tight from the emotion pushing up from the inside. I’m going to need to tell someone. But not face to face. Not yet.
There’s only one person on the planet I can tell. I pull over and shut down the truck. When it stops farting, I hit speed dial.
“Carly? You usually call after dinner. What’s wrong?”
Just hearing Cora’s husky voice loosens every emotion I’ve tried like hell to keep in. “Everything.” My voice comes out mangled and watery.
“Hon, what is it?”
The news rushes out of me like runoff in a storm drain after a downpour.
“Oh, Carly.” I hear no judgment, only sympathy. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t see any way through this. I don’t know if I could have an abortion, but I can’t imagine being a single parent, either.” I push the tears down until I’m steadier. “I can’t tell my grandparents. I can’t think. I can’t breathe…”
“Have you thought about going away somewhere until the baby is born? You could give it up for adoption, then head back home. You sure wouldn’t be the first to do it.”
I don’t know if I can give up a baby that’s smaller than my finger. When they put a sweet-faced bundle in my arms? No way. A sob breaks through. “God, I just wish I could get away from this unforgiving place. Maybe I’d be able to see what to do with a little distance.”
“Then why don’t you take a vacation?”
A pretty picture of that umbrella drink taunts me, until I remember. Pregnant women can’t drink. “My spare cash wouldn’t get me past Albuquerque.” And besides, you can’t outrun a guilty conscience. I’ve been trying for weeks.
I can hear a spoon clinking the sides of a cup. “Give me a minute. Let me think.”
Silence for a minute. Or maybe it just seems that long.
“You know, I could use a vacation. My daughter has a three-month-old I haven’t even met yet. You could take over managing my truck.”
Oh, great. Now I’m just one of those hopeless women that Cora hires. “No, I’ll just—”
“You’ll just what? It would give you some time to recover a bit from the gut-punch. And you’d be earning money while you’re doing it. Why not?”
My brain, which has been running in circles for hours, straightens.
Lorelei can handle managing the diner. But will she?
My mood lifts from the floor. I could even ride the motorcycle. Cora always has two women per truck; a cook and someone to work the window. I could let the cook drive the truck…Oh, Nana would have kittens if I rode that motorcycle out of town.
Freedom whispers in my ear, and I take my first deep breath since the doctor walked in that exam room. It won’t heal my filleted heart, or solve any of my other problems. But maybe it could be a way to survive until the pain is bearable. “Do you really think I could?”
“I don’t see why not. But one thing—no, two things you need to know before you decide.”
My stomach drops. I wasn’t aware that I’d already made up my mind to do this, but I must have. “Are they show-stoppers?”
“Depends on you. First, you know my truck is on the rodeo circuit. Odds are, you’ll run into Austin.”
I’m going to have to tell him. Sometime. Maybe it would be better on the road, where neither of us is on our turf. “I’ll deal with that when I have to. What’s the second?”
“My cook. She’s good, and dependable, but a little…rough around the edges.”
Cora has built her business into a fleet of five food trucks, and she only hires women who need help. Battered or pregnant, parolees or lost souls—she teaches them job skills that set them on a path to independence. No use pretending I’m better than them, when I’m so obviously not. “I’m used to dealing with employees. That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay, but I think it’s only fair to tell you: She’s on parole.”
* * *
Carly
It’s after the lunch rush the next day before I get the guts to call Lorelei to my office.
She sticks her head in the door. “You wanted me?”
“Come on in, have a seat.” I take a six-inch pile of catalogs and circulars from the only other chair in my closet-sized office. “I’ve gotta get caught up on the danged filing.”
Lorelei sits, fingers laced so tightly her knuckles are white. “You’re not going to lay me off, are you? Because I really, really need this job.”
I’m so intent on my speech, it takes me a second to compute. “What? No! Where would you get that idea?”
“Well, I know the waitress at the Lunch Box has been talking to you, and she’s been a head waitress longer than I have, and…”
“Are you kidding me?” I flick a hand to brush away her worries. “You’ve been with us seven years, and I depend on you. You really think I’d just dump you for someone dumb enough to work for Dusty Banks?”
Her blond bangs lift with her huge sigh. “No, I guess not. It’s just that I get freaked out worrying about mom’s medical bills and all. Sorry. I know you better than that.”
Her mother had a stroke two months ago, but I didn’t know they had money problems. “Well then, how’d you like to make some extra money for a couple weeks?”
She sits up. “You bet. Doing what?”
“I’m going on a working vacation, and I need you to manage the diner while I’m gone.”
“Me?” The word comes out in a mouse’s squeak.
“Why not? You double-check every order before I send it as it is. You know the shifts. I could teach you what you don’t know in like two hours.”
She tips her chin up and looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “What’s going on, Carly? You never take time off. And isn’t ‘working vacation’ an oxymoron?”
“Nothing, now I do, and you’re probably right.” I shuffle papers to avoid her probing look. “You remember me telling you about Cora, right?”
“The lunch truck lady.”
“Yeah. Well, she wants a vacation to go see her grandkids and I told her that if I could get you to cover for me, I’d cover for her. Besides—” I look up. This part is easier because it’s true. “I want to try out my new bike. And to get away from all the gossip and nosy Unforgivians.”
Her look of pity is familiar—it’s the one everyone gets when the subject of Austin comes up. “Can’t say as I blame you. But if it’s any consolation, he’s hurting too, Carly.”
I can’t ask. It’ll add ten more pounds to my guilt. But the little girl inside says, “How do you know?”
She looks at the papers on my desk. At her feet. At her clasped hands. “He texts me to ask how you are.”
Make that fifty pounds of guilt.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disloyal, I swear. But Carly, it’s so sad to see a strong guy like that hurting…It’s like seeing a dog flinch from your hand, you know?”
I must have winced, because she rushes on. “Look. Forget I said anything. I won’t answer him again, I promise.”
“It’s okay, Lorelei. You won’t know anything anyway, because I’ll be gone. That is, if you’ll cover for me.” Her face lights up when I tell her the temporary raise she’ll get. We spend a few minutes making plans.
“Sounds good. I’ll stop by before I’m off, and we can go over the rest.” She stops in the doorway. “Carly, I know it’s none of my business, but…”
I brace myself. No good news ever starts that way.
“You should talk to him. You guys still love each other. It’s obvious. You’re miserable and he’s a mess. You guys can work this out; I know you can.” She steps out, and the door falls closed.
Maybe so—before the latest trip to Albuquerque.
Now, it’s impossible to the second power. And if Austin hadn’t tutored me through algebra, I wouldn’t even know what that means.
* * *
Austin
“Sheeite.” At the last second, I cut the wheel of my F250 and make the turn into the Rexall parking lot, earning me a kid’s-toy-car beep from the Mini behind me. I give him a “my-bad” wave. “You’re not from around here, are you, dude?” Must be hard to see around all the big-ass trucks in town.
I came to town to get bandages, and I almost drove right past. My brain has been like that lately. Hell, I wouldn’t have cut myself on that damned barbed wire if I’d had my mind on the job, instead of wondering what Carly’s doing…how she’s feeling. Does she miss me? I thought we’d be back together by now. We always have before. Maybe there was some invisible line I crossed that only women can see?
Sure would help if women came with instructions.
I stuff my wallet in my pocket and head in. The automatic door whooshes open and I walk into a wall of chilly air. Hopefully I can get in and get out. I’m tired, my muscles hurt, and I smell like my horse. And there’s that bottle of Jack waiting at home.
I’m bent over in the first aid aisle when I hear a warm-honey voice. For a nanosecond sparklers go off, before reality kicks in. I peer over the display, heart hammering in my ears.
Carly is on the opposite side, discussing the stamp pad ink selection with Mr. Swalls, the druggist.
The bandage box crunches, and I force my hand to relax. I go still and just take her in. It looks like she just got off work. A book of guest tickets peeks out of the pocket of her stained half-apron. Her hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, the rest of the curls dancing around her face. Her freckles stand out against her pale skin. She looks tired. She looks wonderful.
She glances up, right into my eyes.
She looks so sad.
She snatches a bottle of ink off the shelf, thanks Mr. Swalls, and scoots down the aisle to the checkout stand.
No cashier. Score for me.
I hustle up behind her, fisting my hands to keep from touching her. “Carly.”
She closes her eyes and just stands, leaning on the counter.
When I touch her hand, she jerks it away and whirls to face me. “Please. Austin, I can’t do this. Not now. I can’t handle it.” Her voice cracks like a cold glass in hot water.
She doesn’t look good. Her color is off. Something’s wrong. “Are you okay?”
She hiccups a laugh, or hysteria. I can’t tell which.
“Hell no.” She shoots a panicked glance right, then left. There’s no one around. She reaches in her purse and tosses a five on the counter.
“Carly, I just want you to know. I’m sorry.”
She bolts for the door like I’m some kind of stalker.
I watch her go. I’m confused, worried, and heartsore. But mostly, I’m so sorry.
Chapter 6
Carly
A week later, the outskirts of Unforgiven whiz by the truck’s window. Good-bye.
The clinic called; no STDs. Turns out, what I worried about most now seems like nothing.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Nana takes her eyes off the road. “Nothing’s better than home when you’re hurting.”
Of course, she’s referring to my breakup with Austin. I don’t have what it takes to tell
her the rest. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I’ll find the courage for that out on the road. I’d better, or this baby will, eventually. We’re flying down the highway. Who knew this truck could do seventy-five? “Go, Fartito,” I say under my breath.
“What?” She looks over at me and two wheels drop off the edge of the road.
“Nana!” I grab the wheel and push left. Fartito swerves into the oncoming lane.
The eighteen-wheeler bearing down on us blasts his air horn.
“Gimmie that.” Nana snatches the wheel and we cross the double yellow into our lane again. “Been driving since I was thigh-high to a gnat’s ass. I don’t need no help. You jest sit there and think about what you’re running from, missy.”
Like I’ve thought of anything else. I close my eyes and try to relax. They say you have fewer injuries on impact that way. It would be my luck to get killed going to pick up what Nana calls my “murder-cycle.”
“I know you’re having a rough patch. But running never fixed nothing.”
I snatched this chance out of the air like a horny toad with a fly. Cora booked a flight to her daughter’s in Oregon for three weeks. It’s all set. I’m going. “I’m not running, Nana. I’m not even getting a vacation. I’ll be working the whole time.” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. Not that this trip will change anything, but I can use a break from familiar faces and prying eyes.
Nana’s snort tells me she’s not buying it.
Floyd’s comes up on our left. Nana slows for the turn, enough so two wheels don’t leave the ground. But it’s a near thing.
Floyd reclines in a lawn chair in front of his showroom, squinting into the sun. His eyes widen when the truck slides to a stop six inches from his fancy boots. Dust billows up, obscuring him, but I can hear him coughing. “Holy NASCAR, Carly, what in tarnation—”
“Don’t you ‘holy’ me, Floyd Hendricks!” Nana yells out the open window. “I knew your momma when she was sneakin’ shine in her tea ’til she was puttin’ your diapers on crossways.”
“Miz Nana.” Floyd emerges from the dust cloud, coughs into his fist, and steps to the driver’s door. “I didn’t know it was you. Could I offer you some cool water on this hot day?”