And somehow that’s worse than if he’d yelled. Worse than if he’d gotten angry or accusatory or any of the things I expected.
Because the hope in his voice—the raw, desperate hope—makes me realize something I’ve been trying not to think:
Idon’t know if I want it to be his baby.
I don’t know if I want it to be Caleb’s baby.
I don’t know if I want to be pregnant at all.
And standing here in this sweltering bathroom, holding a positive pregnancy test, with the sounds of the lunch rush pounding against the door, I’ve never felt more trapped in my entire life.
“We need to figure out—” I start, but Z’s already pulling me into his arms.
“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers into my hair. “Whatever happens. Your body, your choice, babe. I can get you to the clinic if that’s what you want. I’m here for you. We’ll figure it out together.”
Fuck, Z is being so amazing and supportive. He’s everything any girl could ever ask for.
But over his shoulder, through the crack in the bathroom door, I can see the kitchen. The never-ending cycle of dirty dishes. The heat and chaos and constant hustle just to survive.
And I think:How the fuck am I supposed to figure any of this out?
How am I supposed to be a mother when I can barely take care of myself?
This is everything I was supposed to be smart enough to avoid. Fuck. Somehow I’m a pregnant teenager living in a trailer after all, no matter how hard I’ve fought for a different destiny than my mother’s.
And now, Jesus. Forget Mom’s man trouble.
How can I choose between two men when I don’t even know which one fathered this fetus?
And underneath it all, the question I’m too terrified to even acknowledge:
What would Caleb say if he knew?
Even the thought alone feels like a betrayal of the earnest, supportive man standing in front of me who’s only ever wanted to offer me the world since the first day we met in the woods as kids.
THREE
July 2016
HARPER
Any sane personwould terminate the pregnancy.
It’s the only choice that makes any sense.
Z printed out the information from Planned Parenthood on Dani’s printer at work. Then he folded it carefully and tucked it into my apron pocket like a secret we’re both pretending isn’t there.
We’re lucky we’re in Austin. It’s one of the few places left in Texas where I can still get a… where it’s at least still an option.
At least for now, while it’s still early.
Time’s running out, though.
But whenever I think about making the appointment, my thumb freezes over the phone screen.
Because what if it’s Caleb’s?
The thought hits me at the worst moments—when I’m elbow-deep in dish suds, or trying to fall asleep in the narrow bed I share with Z, or when I wake up from dreams where Caleb’shands are on my skin and his voice is in my ear sayingI love youover and over until I wake up gasping.