Arriving and traveling to get here, I felt fine. Because all of the endorphins of finding out I was pregnant were no doubt gassing me up, but now, now that I’ve slept, I’ve showered, and I’m on the other side of the world, running from my psycho boyfriend—or ex—I find myself feeling… deflated.
As if I pulled that trigger all those hours ago and I’m living in a different dimension. One where emotions don’t exist.
I slowly pull my hand away from hers and wrap them both around the mug in front of me, watching the chocolate flakes float among the puffy pink and white marshmallows. “I was going to kill myself.”
I don’t bother to catch Grace’s reaction. That thing about Grace that I can’t put my finger on, feels a lot like home. She offers comfort, and I don’t know her enough to regret telling her anything. Deep down, I know I need to talk with someone about this—even if it is just Grace.
I’m pregnant.
I’m going to be a mother, and I want to be a great one. Great mothers are maternal, and to be maternal you have to feel. Right now, I can’t feel anything. I barely feel the warmth on my palms from my hot chocolate.
“I just—” I swipe another stray tear as it falls down my face. “I’m sorry.”
Grace stands from her chair and gestures to someone behind me. “Can we get these to go, please? And a couple of your danishes, Jaz.”
I can hear shuffling, chatter, and even Grace talking to me, but I have no will to respond.
A hand is in mine as Grace passes me my hot chocolate, and I follow her absentmindedly as we cross the busy road in silence. Grace kicks off her shoes, but I keep mine on as we follow a sandy path down to the main beach.
I stop. My legs are unable to move once I hit a small dune. A tingling sensation moves in waves through my arms and down to my fingertips at the feeling of being near something so natural. Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with. I could learn from her.
“You know, when I was a child, I would come out here and just sit and watch the edge of the ocean. I’d imagine sailing across the waters to Greece, or any other country.”
“What was wrong with this country?” I find myself asking, using what energy the sandy beach gave me to finally kick off my slides and slowly lower myself beside Grace, drawing my knees to my chest.
“Well, for one, it didn’t give me parents that loved me.”
I try not to be shocked when I learn new information about people, and after my years with the EKC and my friends, not much does surprise me. “You want to talk about that?”
“Sure, I don’t mind talking about my traumas.” Her eyes come to mine, a gentle shade of brown. “It’s how I dealt with them.” I sink my fingers into the sand, rolling it between my fingertips.
“Oh, God,” I moan, trying to hide my laughter behind a small sip of the hot chocolate. I can feel my chest lighten. “You’re a fucking shrink, aren’t you…”
Her shoulders shake as she taps her sunglasses down from her head to cover her eyes. “That obvious?”
“Well, no… not at first, but now? Totally.” A shrink. Grace with a boyfriend in jail and Jesse as a brother-in-law—a shrink.
We both stand after sitting in silence for thirty minutes and start making our way back to the road.
“So my trauma,” she finally says.
I’m interested in her life story, at the very least to take my mind off my own, but I don’t want to force her to talk about it either.
It’s not until we hit the corner of the main road and start walking the way we came that she continues.
“My damage isn’t like the usual. I had parents who were present, but I would have rather them not be.”
We continue walking until we reach the brown gate that opens out to the cozy beach home.
I flick open the lock. “Is that how long you have known Jesse and Levi?” I follow behind her as she leads us in through the front doors that open out to the patio.
She tosses the keys onto a coffee table then flops down on the sofa. “No. I met Jesse and Levi right after I finished university. Got my PhD in psychology and the night of my graduation—” Her eyes close, shaking her head and bringing her attention back up to me.
I already know at this point that this woman’s damage is a lot worse and deeper than parents fucking with her. This is deeper. Darker. Maybe even at my level—most likely not—but damage, nonetheless.
“In short, I killed someone and now Levi is in prison.”
I roll my lips between my teeth to stop any words from flying out of my mouth.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she continues, turning her head to face me.
I want to ask what happened and why. I want to curl up and listen to her life story because this woman is interesting. She’s like a new topic you want to explore.
“I dealt with it all years ago, but you asked about my damage, so I wanted to share a little with you.”
“So that I would share mine with you?” I ask, my brow arched.
She shakes her head, kicking off her sneakers and curling her legs beneath her butt on the sofa. “No. I told you so that you know that whatever it is you’re going through, you’re not alone and I am here if and when you want.”
The front door unlocks, jolting us both out of our surprisingly intimate girls’ day, for people who don’t know each other at all. I watch as Jesse dumps his bike helmet onto the kitchen counter, ruffling his hair between his fingers before leaning down to untie his boots. Jesse and I have always had a non-sexual connection, people know that, but would Bishop still put a bullet between his eyes without thinking twice about it?
Absolutely.
“How was the studio?” Grace asks, and I start plaiting my hair to the side as Jesse walks into the sitting room, taking a seat beside Grace and giving off a whiff of oil and burned rubber.
“Good.” His eyes come to mine. “I know it has been a while, but there are a couple of people who have come in and asked for certain styles that I know you’d be good at.”
“Jesse…” I whine, at the same time my palms become clammy and sweaty and my shoulders tense. I do love art, and I’ve always found a home with sketching and drawing, but something about it now feels painfully like a memory. It’s not a broken heart that hurts after love; it’s the memories that you made. It’s the fact that Bishop has connected himself to every single thing I loved, and now I have nothing.
Nothing that doesn’t remind me of him.
Grace nudges Jesse with her arm. “Maybe give her a minute.”
A minute? I’ll most likely need a month.
Or two.
Two months later
I AM OFFICIALLY INTO MY second trimester. As time drifts on, I find new little tweaks about pregnancy that I find myself wanting to share with Bishop. It’s a pain I have no right to feel, I know that, but it doesn’t stop it from paralyzing me. So I’ve started documenting all the things I wish he could see. Maybe one day, I’ll show it to him. Maybe. But the thought of Bishop knowing I’m pregnant horrifies me, and that’s mainly because I don’t know if the baby is his. I won’t know until I give birth, and then what? Then I have to find a way to get his DNA to get them both tested? All while hiding the baby from him?