Show up at her high school.
Last night,I got a tattoo of the key I’d used to open her diary. Positioned it right over my heart. I can show her. She’llsee how serious this is for me and come with me to hide in the woods.
It’s easy to blend in as a student, standing in the halls, waiting for classes to change so I can find her. And I do. Right after lunch.
She’s with Talon Moretti—skinny, smug, arm slung possessively across her shoulders. He’s got that public-boyfriend swagger, the one I’ve seen in their pictures online. When she turns, my breath leaves me cold. I blink at the vision in front of me, but it doesn’t go away.
Is that a belly?
When did that happen?
“What are you doing here?” she asks as I stand, stunned, in front of a locker.
Some of the students pause to watch.
“Who are you?” Talon says with a grin like he’s already collected whatever this is.
I take one step forward, and my voice drops into a hard edge. “Who the fuck am I? I’m?—”
She cuts me off, bright and practiced. “This is my boyfriend, Talon.”
The hall narrows. Students circle. My hands go slick on my jacket. My pulse hammers in my throat.“I’m sorry, your…what?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” Talon says, puffed with ridiculous pride. “And the father. Right, babe?” His hand slides, arrogant, down the front of her sweater, over her stomach, like heownswhat’s inside of her.
Ashlyn’s eyes are unshakable. Unreadable. My jaw opens and shuts several times.
I whisper, “Baby…”
Ashlyn shudders delicately, but steps back into herboyfriend. “So please leave me alone.”
“Leave you… What the actual… What is happening here?”
“You heard her. Back off, bitch.”
Something cold uncoils inside me. My knees want to fold. Instead, my body answers with a movement older than thought—two hard swings and Talon’s face explodes. He collapses, nose a red smear. With a swift kick in his ribs, I leave him winded on the floor.
Teachers shout down the hall for me to stop and rush toward us as I grab Ashlyn’s arms and shake her violently. “What did you do? Why?”
Ashlyn’s mouth trembles.“I lied. I’m sorry. I don’t want you.”
Keys from the security guard’s belt jingle. Hands try to grab me, but I shrug them off like dead weight and go for the doors. Fury makes my eyes blurry.
Thumbs on the handles, I push down, but they’re locked.
And the police block my exit.
My brain, a machine that should have a manual, shorts out. Riotous voices, broken glass shattering, punches, and slaps cleave through the crowd noises.
Dad’s going to kill me.
Maybe I’ll do it for him first.
thirty-five
Christmas Eve Morning:5 a.m. — 442 push-ups