Is that really what she thinks? The Princes would never do something like that to me. I’ve been best friends with Hunter since we were in diapers. We used to play together under the weeping willow that separated our house from the house that sits between ours.
Any time you saw Hunter, I was there. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. Fuck, they used to put us in the same crib together because Mom said I couldn’t sleep, and Hunter’s presence always calmed me down.
We are soulmates—two halves of a whole. No way would his parents—or Hunter, for that matter—toss me away like I mean nothing. There’s too much history.
She makes me livid. Her actions, her suggestions—just her in general. The sight of her sickens me, and I can’t decide if it’s over the abortion she didn’t tell my dad about, or the fact she never consulted him about it. I mean, it was his baby, too, wasn’t it? They both loved each other and wanted to start a family. Maybe the timing was off, but they wouldn’t have gotten married if they hadn’t welcomed the idea of love and children.
From somewhere deep down in the pit of my stomach, blazing anger rises to the surface. “So, that’s your suggestion? An abortion?” She nods. I step toward her, baring my teeth in a sneer. “I’m not you, Mom. I can’t get rid of a life without at least allowing the dad the courtesy of knowing it exists. Future wise—because there is a future with Hunter and me—where would that leave us? He would consider what I did a betrayal and leave me sitting. And besides that, I don’t believe in taking care of it.
“Yes, what happened was a surprise. Is it a lot to take in? Yes. But to outright extinguish the problem before thinking things through and letting him know about it? No. I refuse to do that. It’s called common courtesy, which apparently, you know nothing about.”
All these years, I didn’t know the person my mom was behind the mask. Not to say she hasn’t been a terrific mom to Duncan and me but doing something like that without even talking to your husband about it seems pretty shitty. And then allowing your teenage daughter to find out before him?
Shaking my head at her, I grab the test and walk toward my connecting door and throw it open. Stomping into my room, I grab my bag, shove the test inside, and then slip into my shoes and grab my jacket. By the time I’m finished, my mom is still standing in the middle of the bathroom, looking like her dog just died.
Once she realizes I’m there, she looks up at me. “You tell him, or I will. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to do what you should have had the decency to do with Dad all those years ago—I’m going to tell Hunter that he’s about to be a dad.”
She appears crestfallen but numbly nods her head. Leave it to my mom to throw a wrench into a situation where there’s already one being thrown.
I take the stairs two at a time, being mindful not to fall. As soon as I get to the bottom of the stairs, both my dad and my brother glance up from the table where all the fixings of a pre-Christmas feast dot along the surface. Sadness overwhelms me, and before I know what’s happening, tears are slowly falling down my cheeks.
Once they see my distress, they go to stand up, but I motion them to stay where they are. If they get up now and try to console me, I’ll probably blab the whole sordid story to them. That’s not my story to tell, and I hope and pray my dad can handle it when she goes explain everything to him.
“I’m going to walk down to Hunter’s for just a moment.” My dad stares at me cautiously, then marginally narrows his eyes, almost as if he’s putting a jigsaw puzzle together, and I’m the strangest piece he’s ever seen. I give him a smile to lighten the air. “I’ll be back before the food gets cold. Promise.”
Before either can say a word, I make my way out of the house and onto the driveway. The night air is crisp and smells like snow. The trees are bare and frightful to peer at, with their bony branches and gnarly bark. Our street is quiet and empty. Everyone is either partying two streets over at the McKenzies, or they’re bunked down watching Christmas movies, eating cookies, and drinking hot chocolate.
The soles of my tennis shoes slap against the wet pavement. Huddling deeper into my jacket, I mull over everything that happened and the conversation I don’t have the energy to have but must with Hunter. Ever since I found out, everything is so much clearer: my fatigue, nausea, tenderness, lack of comfortableness. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since before we were released from school for winter break.
Hunter was actually supposed to come over today to visit, but he texted and laughed about how his mom needed him to do stuff for her and that he’d catch me later. Mrs. Prince always needs Hunter to do things for her, so I didn’t really mind that. What I did mind, however, was the fact that he’s been radio silent ever since.
I soon get to the corner to turn down his street when I hear the purring of a truck from behind me. Well, not really a purr—more of a gurgling noise, like the entire engine is guzzling the bottle of oil my dad has to put in it every day. Coming to a stop next to me, I grimace as the brakes grind against the rotor.
“Baby girl, you’ll catch your death out here. Jump on in the truck.”
Something about his voice makes me stop and listen, even in my overly emotional state. But there is also this deep, knowing regret in it, too. Wonder if my dad knows about the baby? Mine, of course, not the one he lost.
After a moment of hesitation, I nod just as a burst of wind nearly cuts me in half. Shivering violently, I make my way around the truck in a hurry, then take the proffered door he’d opened, climbing inside. Huddling smaller for warmth, I cup my hands in front of my face and blow hot air into them.
Usually, in Georgia, it doesn’t get this cold. But for some reason, it’s been unusually bitter this winter. More snow than we’ve had in the past two decades was reported this year, too.
I buckle my belt as my dad puts the truck in drive and patters onward. However, before long, he says something that nearly has me swallowing my tongue. I jerk to the left, pinning him with a look. He never meets my eyes, but I know he saw my reaction from the corner of his eye. How could he not?
“I know about the baby, Lo.” I don’t know whether to swallow my tongue or puke.
“What baby?”
He side-eyes me, then returns his attention back onto the road. “I know about your mom’s first pregnancy. What baby did you think I was—”
He slams on the brakes, causing the truck to skid a good five or six feet on the wet road. My hands catch on the dashboard, and even without looking in his direction—I’m too afraid to at this point—I hear his heavy breathing.
From my peripheral vision, I see the way his hands tighten and release on the wheel. “You better answer me, little girl. What baby did you think I was talking about? I’ll bend you over my knee if you lie to me.”
Gulping, I lick my lips as heat brandishes my skin. “Daddy, please don’t hate me.”
“No, no, no,” he groans, and the tears are already making their way out of my eyes when I see him bow his head against the steering wheel in defeat. “I thought your mom took care of this.”
I know he’s not trying to be mean, but his words still hit their target. “We didn’t plan this, Daddy, I swear. Mom said it was cause I may have taken antibiotics before Thanksgiving.”