Sometimes, when I’m almost asleep, a sound will jolt me back to full alertness. I’ll listen closely, questioning whether I really heard something or if it’s just my imagination playing tricks. I’ll hold my breath, remain still, and focus intently.
I’m quiet. I’m still.
I’m holding my breath. I’m listening.
I’m concentrating hard while my head rests on her thighs. I don’t know when I ended up here, but my hands are still gripping her waist. I’m trying to determine if her words are going to hit me hard again, or if it’s just my imagination.
God, I hope it’s just my imagination.
A tear falls from her eye, landing on my cheek.
“I didn’t find out until I was already in Italy,” she says, her voice tinged with sorrow and shame. “I’m so sorry.”
In my mind, I start counting backward—days, weeks, months—trying to make sense of what she’s saying. She’s obviously not pregnant now. My mind is racing, crunching numbers, trying to resolve the confusion.
She was in Italy for almost seven months.
Seven months there, three months before she left, and one month since she returned.
That’s almost a year.
My head hurts. Everything hurts.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she continues. “I couldn’t raise him by myself. I was already eighteen when I found out, so…”
I immediately lift up and look at her. “Him?” I ask, shaking my head. “How do you know…” I close my eyes, blow out a steady breath, then release my grip on her waist. I stand up, turn around, and pace back and forth, trying to process everything.
“Six,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t… are you saying…” I pause, then turn to face her. “Are you telling me you had a baby? That we had a baby?”
She’s crying again, sobbing uncontrollably. I don’t know if she ever stopped. She nods, and it looks painful.
“I didn’t know what to do, Daniel. I was so scared.”
She stands up, walks toward me, and places her hands gently on my cheeks. “I didn’t know who you were, so I didn’t know how to tell you. If I knew your name or what you looked like, I never would have made that decision without you.”
I bring my hands up to hers and pull them away from my face. “Don’t,” I say, trying to hold back the growing resentment. I’m struggling to understand, to let it all sink in.
I just can’t.
“How could you not tell me? It’s not like you found a puppy, Six. This is…” I shake my head, still not grasping it. “You had a baby. And you didn’t even tell me!”
She grabs my shirt in her fists, shaking her head, trying to show me her perspective. “Daniel, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! What was I supposed to do? Did you expect me to plaster flyers all over the school asking for information on who got me pregnant in the maintenance closet?”
I look her straight in the eyes. “Yes,” I say quietly.
She steps back, so I step forward. “Yes, Six! That’s exactly what I would have expected you to do. You should have plastered it all over the hallways, aired it on the radio, taken an ad out in the fucking newspaper! You get pregnant with my kid and worry about your reputation? Are you kidding me?”
My hand covers my cheek right after she slaps me.
The pain in her eyes can’t compare to the pain in my heart, so I don’t feel bad for what I said, even though she starts crying harder than I knew was possible.
She rushes back to her car. I let her go.
I walk back to the swing and sit down. Fucking life.
Motherfucking life.
Daniel: Where are you?
Holder: Just left Sky’s house. Almost home. What’s up?
Daniel: I’ll be there in five.
Holder: Everything okay?
Daniel: Nope.
Five minutes later, Holder is waiting on his curb. I pull up, and he opens the passenger door before climbing inside. I park the car, prop my foot on the dash, and look out the window.
I’m surprised at how angry and sad I am. I can’t separate my feelings to figure out what’s upsetting me the most. I don’t know if it’s because I didn’t get a say in her decision or because she was even put in a position to make such a decision.
I’m angry I wasn’t there to help her. I’m angry at myself for being careless enough to put her through something like this.
I’m sad because… hell, I’m sad that I’m so mad at her. I’m sad I have to know something so overwhelming and can’t do anything about it now. I’m sad because I’m sitting here, about to have a breakdown in front of my best friend, and I really don’t want to, but it’s too late.
I punch the steering wheel as I start to cry. I hit it several times until the car feels like it’s closing in on me. I get out, kick the tire repeatedly until my foot goes numb, then collapse against the hood, pressing my forehead against the cold metal and trying to bury my anger.
It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault.
When I finally calm down enough to return to the car, Holder is sitting quietly in the passenger seat, watching me closely.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He nods, probably relieved I don’t want to talk. “What do you want to do?” he asks.
I grip the steering wheel and start the car. “I don’t care what we do.”
“Me neither.”
I put the car in drive.
“We could go to Breckin’s house and let you get your aggression out on a video game,” he suggests.
I nod and drive toward Breckin’s place. “You better not fucking tell him I cried.”
