Riders on the Storm (Waiting for the Sun #2)

by Robin Hill

  “Take a long walk on the beach?” A laugh bursts from my throat. “Are we dating now?” I twist the cap off the bottle of Grey Goose. “Can we just stay in? Get sauced on expensive vodka and watch movies?”

  She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Magic Mike it is.”

  “Actually, I was leaning more toward Fatal Attraction.”

  “Frankie…” she says, frustration pinching her features.

  I bite back my grin. Jane doesn’t find me nearly as amusing as I find myself. The truth is, it doesn’t matter if we watch Fatal Attraction or Dumb and Dumber. It’s all going to hurt the same.

  I finish making our drinks and hand her one. “And for the love of all things holy, please stop Frankie-ing me. It’s my broken heart we’re celebrating.”

  “Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes above the lip of her glass as she takes a sip.

  We move to the living room, each of us claiming a corner of the couch, our feet meeting in the middle. Jane tosses me the remote, grudgingly giving me my way.

  “Don’t look so glum,” I tell her. “You love this movie.”

  “Used to love this movie.”

  Two Bloody Marys into Fatal Attraction, I’m trying to decide if Amanda’s the type of person who could kill an innocent bunny.

  “Don’t judge me,” Jane says, stretching her arms as she stands from the sofa, “but all this rabbit boiling’s making me hungry. What do you think? Frozen pizza or frozen pizza?”

  “Ugh. I’m not feeling pizza, frozen or otherwise.”

  “You haven’t eaten since you’ve been home,” she says in her mom voice. “You’re eating something.” Her expression softens as she nods toward the window. “Let’s get out of here for a while. Get something heavy like chicken fried steak to sop up the alcohol.”

  My body stiffens. “First of all, I hate chicken fried steak. And second, we can’t drive; we’ve been drinking.”

  “Correction, you’ve been drinking. I’ve hardly touched mine,” she says, gesturing to her glass on the coffee table. “And since when do you hate chicken fried steak?”

  I sigh loudly. “Pizza’s fine.”

  As soon as the movie ends, we move to the kitchen. Jane preheats the oven and makes me a fresh drink while I sit quietly at the table, scrolling through the music on her phone.

  “Has he called you?” I ask, my eyes locked on the screen.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No.” She sets my glass on the table. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I blocked him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her penetrating gaze burns through me as she takes a seat. “I assume he’s called you.”

  I shrug. “Don’t know. My phone’s been off.”

  “Maybe you should turn it on,” she says gently. “Hear him out? It’s Darian. Don’t you think—”

  “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” by Hank Williams cuts her sentence short and she frowns, grabbing her phone from me and silencing it.

  “Really, Frankie? You’re acting crazy. What are we watching next? Unfaithful?”

  “Ooh…” My wide eyes dart to hers. “That’s a great idea!”

  “Just stop!” she says, her voice so loud it echoes off the walls of my kitchen. “Please, Frankie, just stop.”

  “Jane, I’m kidding.”

  “I know,” she says. “And I’m sorry for shouting, but I’m worried about you.”

  My eyes begin to burn, and I lower them to my lap. “Magic Mike is fine.”

  But Magic Mike isn’t fine. Nothing’s fine.

  The next several hours are torture. The alcohol isn’t making me strong; it’s making me miss him. I keep turning to look out the window, desperate for the sun to go down, but it’s as if time is standing still. Everything hurts, and the pain is made so much worse by pretending it isn’t there.

  I just want to sleep.

  “Jane, I think…” My voice breaks.

  Jane takes one look at me and nods. “You did good today, kid.” She smiles sweetly. “If you need anything…”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  “Get some rest then. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  If there’s an art to puking quietly, I’ve yet to master it.

  The Bloody Marys I had yesterday helped me sleep, but with only a single slice of pizza to soak them up, I’m paying the price this morning.

  “Can I interest you in a little hair of the dog?” Jane asks as the bathroom door creaks open.

  Oh God, no. I’m never drinking again.

  Just thinking about it has me clutching my stomach. I let out a wretched groan and shake my head as much as one can with their cheek pressed against the closed lid of a toilet.

  “What about some hangover food then?” she asks, stepping over me to get to the sink.

  “Mm-mm.”

  I hear the door to the linen closet open and close, the faucet turn on and off.

  “You have to eat something,” she says, kneeling beside me. She holds a damp washcloth to my forehead and drags her fingers through my hair, tucking the loose strands behind my ear. “That’s what got you into this mess. You know better than to drink hard liquor on an empty stomach.” Her voice softens. “Think you can manage a shower?”

  I nod.

  “You get cleaned up,” she says, “and I’ll go hunt down some greasy, carb-y goodness.”

  Jane’s greasy, carb-y offering turns out to be cheese fries with ranch dressing, and I eat only enough to appease her. We spend the day camped out like zombies in front of the TV, flipping channels, but without the pleasant dullness of yesterday’s cocktails, it’s excruciating.

  And like yesterday, I keep turning to look out the window, but for a completely different reason.

  If Darian were coming, he’d be here by now.

  I’m aware of Jane’s gaze on me as she mutes the TV.

  “You okay over there?” she asks.

  “No,” I whisper, my eyes brimming. “He’s not coming, is he?”

  She’s quiet for a moment, then reaches across the sofa for my hand. “Do you want him to?”

  “No… Maybe? I don’t know.” I blot my eyes with the sleeve of my T-shirt. “I don’t want him to come, but I guess I thought maybe he would anyway?” I say this as if it were a question. “I know I’m not making any sense.”

  “You’re making perfect sense,” Jane says. “You want him to fight, even if it’s a fight he can’t win.”

  “I miss him, Jane. I don’t want to, but I do.”

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “I think I want to lie down for a little while,” I say. “I’m still not feeling well.”

  Jane stands, bringing me with her. “I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready.” She gives my hand a final squeeze, then cups my cheek. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  In my room, I pick up Darian’s button-down shirt from the pile on the floor and put it on. Then I lie down on his side of the bed, press my cheek into his pillow, and fight the urge to cry until glorious sleep takes me.

  The next morning, Jane finds me flat on my back on the bathroom floor, a damp hand towel draped over my face.

  “Don’t come too close,” I mumble through the terrycloth. “I think my hangover’s evolved into a stomach bug.”

  She bends to feel my forehead but says nothing as she steps over me to take a seat on the side of the tub.

  I peel away one corner of the towel to look at her.

  The rise and fall of her chest is followed by a long, slow swallow. “Frankie…aren’t you due for another shot?”

  I sit up quickly, so quickly it makes me dizzy. The hand towel falls to my lap.

  “I remember you got it right before we went to South By,” she says. “That was”—she does the math on her fingers and her face pales—“a little over three months ago! Fuck, Frankie! You were supposed to find a gyno w
hen you got to Miami. We even joked about it!”

  Panic spreads through my veins, making my blood run hot, my skin icy cold.

  “I know, I know. Oh fuck, I know.” I wring the towel so tight in my hands it snaps free. “Everything happened so fast. Our whole relationship happened so fast.” My stomach lurches and I crawl to the toilet and lift the lid. “I’ve never had to pay attention to it before.”

  “Okay,” Jane says, crouching beside me. She holds her hand to her throat, then tries—and fails—to smile encouragingly. “We’re overreacting. Sometimes those things last longer than three months, right? And you’ve been under a lot of stress. You just need some damn food in your system.”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  “I can’t be pregnant, Jane.”

  “You’re not.” She shakes her head definitively. “Of course you’re not. But to put your mind at ease, I’ll go get some tests, okay?”

  I nod.

  “Frankie, you’re not.”

  Wild Child

  Darian: I get that you’re upset and I don’t blame you, but can you please let me know where you are?

  Frankie

  I am. I’m fucking pregnant.

  The floor tilts beneath my feet, and I grip the counter for support.

  I’m pregnant and Darian won’t want it.

  He never said it outright, but the night I met Evelyn—the night I confronted him about the prospect of kids—I knew. Darian would give me a child, but only to appease me.

  And I didn’t need appeasing.

  “You’d make an amazing mother. I’d never deny you a family…if that’s what you want.”

  “You okay in there?” Jane calls from the other side of the bathroom door.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do I want to have children with you? Yes, because it’s you. But only when you’re ready.”

  “Did you do both of them?” she asks.

  “What if I’m never ready?”

  “Of course I did both of them.”

  “Then you’re never ready.”

  Do I keep it, even if that means doing it on my own? I’m not prepared to raise a child solo. I’m barely twenty-two; I’m not prepared to raise a child at all.

  Jane was seventeen!

  “It’s going to be okay,” Jane says thickly. “No matter what.”

  But the alternative…

  My gaze falls to my stomach and I whisper back, “No matter what.”

  I tuck my feet beneath me on the sofa and hold my hand to my belly, the reality of my condition slowly sinking in. It doesn’t seem real. I don’t feel pregnant, and if it weren’t for the nausea, I wouldn’t even know.

  If it weren’t for the nausea, you’d probably be drowning your broken heart in Grey Goose.

  “Jacob says to tell you he loves you,” Jane calls from the kitchen. “We should get out of here for a few days. Take him to Six Flags or Schlitterbahn or something.”

  I wince at the thought of peopling. “I don’t think I’m up for that yet, but you should go. I’m sure he misses you.”

  “He misses you too,” she says, coming into the living room carrying a small bottle of ginger ale. She hands it to me, then plops down beside me on the couch. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better, I guess, but…”

  “But?”

  I twist the cap off my soda and take a swig, swallowing down the guilt rising like bile to my lips. “I drank those Bloody Marys on Thursday, and on Darian’s birthday”—my fingers begin to tremble against the glass—“I had a lot of wine.”

  Jane bites her lip to suppress a smile.

  “What?” I ask, but then it hits me. “Oh God.”

  There’s only one reason I’d be worried…

  She takes my hand in hers. “It’s big, huh? Even though your mind was probably made up the second you found out, acknowledging it just feels big.”

  “Yeah, big.” Big and terrifying.

  “And FYI,” she says, “you only had two drinks on Thursday. The ones I made were virgins.”

  The relief I feel is fleeting. “But before that, Jane…”

  “Before that is out of your control. You didn’t know, and you’re far from the first pregnant woman who drank unsuspectingly. Stressing about it will only make it worse.” She gives my hand a squeeze and then eases back into her corner of the couch. “Wanna watch something? Try to take your mind off things for a while?”

  I push the remote toward her with my foot. “Sure, but you pick. I’m fresh out of cheating movies to taunt you with.”

  “How ’bout Knocked Up?”

  I choke on my ginger ale. “Knocked Up is perfect.”

  The air is thick with apprehension as Jane gets ready to leave. She’ll only be gone two days, but to watch her dart around the cabin—checking the freezer, the pantry, the window locks?—one might assume she’s never coming back. I finish off the miniature can of Diet Coke she bought me and toss it with perfect precision into the trash bin.

  “I’ll be okay, Jane,” I say for the third time this morning.

  She stops what she’s doing and turns around, her eyes shimmering with tears, causing my own to water.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” she says, tearing off a paper towel and pressing it to her cheeks. “We found out you were pregnant yesterday. I feel like we need to—I don’t know—talk about things?”

  I push out of my chair at the kitchen table and go to her. “I have a lot to think about, and as much as it helps having you here, there’s stuff I need to figure out on my own.”

  Like how and when I’m going to tell Darian.

  “You’re right,” Jane says, wadding up the paper towel and dropping it in the trash. “Just promise me you’ll eat?”

  “I’ll eat.”

  “Because it’s not just you anymore.”

  “I know.”

  She juts her chin toward the soda can I threw away. “And only one of those per day,” she says, lifting the garbage bag from the bin and tying the flaps. “None would be better.”

  “I’ll work on that.”

  “Oh, and I almost forgot. I ordered you a couple of e-books, What to Expect When You’re Expecting and the Mayo Clinic one, so be sure to check your—shit, Frankie, your phone!”

  “I’ll turn it on. I have to check my email anyway.” I steeple my fingers over the bridge of my nose. “I don’t even want to think about what’s going on with my party boxes right now.”

  “Just don’t overdo it,” she says as she shoulders her backpack. “We’re going to Schlitterbahn, so I won’t have my phone on me, but I’ll check it often, okay?”

  “Jacob’ll have the best time. I can’t believe he’s never been.”

  “You sure I can’t talk you into going? Lazy rivers? Wave pools? Cute lifeguards?”

  I laugh. “Tempting.”

  “I’m kidding,” she says, bending to kiss my cheek. Her keys rattle on her finger as she grabs the garbage bag and carries it to the door. “Okay, I’m going. If you can’t reach me, call Lucy. But if it’s an emergency—”

  “Dial 911. Thanks, Mom, but I’ve got this.”

  I follow Jane outside and watch from the porch railing until her car is out of sight. Then I let out a shaky sigh, wondering if I’ve got anything at all.

  A barrage of voice mails flood my phone the second I power it on. With my eyes closed and my heart lodged in my throat, I lift the device to my ear and listen, desperate for just one reason, one explanation I can use. Something—anything—that will let me forgive him.

  7:15 a.m. Wednesday: “It’s me. I’m sorry about yesterday…and last night. I know I should have called. I should have done a lot of things. Anyway, I’ll be home—”

  But I don’t even make it through the first one before I’m skipping ahead to the next.

  1:40 p.m. Wednesday: “The good news is, I think I fixed your jewelry box. The bad news is, the ballerina keeps—
”

  And the next…

  3:35 p.m. Wednesday: “I wanted to talk to you about this in person, but I asked Drew to set me up with a counselor friend—”

  And the next…

  9:42 p.m. Wednesday: “I’m just calling to say goodnight. I love you.”

  I play every one, but only enough to satisfy the masochist in me.

  8:06 a.m. Thursday: “Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. I really wish you’d—”

  12:36 p.m. Thursday: “Evelyn was here earlier. She said you guys had brunch plans. She also said I should—”

  2:04 a.m. Friday: “I can’t sleep, and I really needed to hear your voice…your—”

  10:37 a.m. Friday: “Hey, babe, just calling to tell you good morning—”

  7:12 p.m. Friday: “It’s barely eight here and I’m already in bed. I think—I hope—”

  1:48 a.m. Saturday: “Hey, you know what I just realized? I stopped—”

  9:18 p.m. Saturday: “Hey, babe. Drew told me why you had the newspaper clipping of Annie, and fuck, I’m so sorry. I feel like—”

  The screen blurs as tears prick my eyes. A perfect storm of anger, heartbreak, and longing wells inside me—driving out reason and common sense—and before I can stop myself, I rear back and hurl my phone at the wall. It hits hard but only makes a small nick in the paint before falling to the floor and skidding to a stop at my feet.

  Then the damn thing begins to vibrate, and my body stiffens with panic. The screen is shattered…illegible.

  Please be Jane. Please be Jane. Please be Jane.

  I bend to pick it up and carefully swipe my finger across the display.

  “Frankie?”

  Oh thank God.

  My pounding heart slows to a dull thud. “The one and only.”