At one point, our relationship was good. Great. We were—in my eyes—the perfect couple. Yes, Diego is a little rough around the edges, but I felt like I smoothed all of those edges out. I calmed him down. I made him happy.
It happened suddenly, Diego’s unhappiness. One day, he was fine, and then the next, he was miserable. At least, that’s what it felt like. But maybe I was wrapped up in my own crap and I didn’t see the transition. Something was going on in his life that made him angry, and I still to this day don’t know what it was.
I’ll probably never know.
It’s when I’m in the middle of making cookies, absently bobbing my head to the beat of some of my favorite songs while plopping sticky dough on the baking sheet, that I get the feeling that someone is watching me.
Glancing up, I catch Diego standing in my back yard, staring at me through the kitchen window. He’s wearing a black beanie on his head and a black sweatshirt, and he looks good in both.
Of course.
Finding him watching me doesn’t scare me or freak me out. It’s almost as if I expected to see him. Maybe because I didn’t show up at the Pizza Factory and that’s why it’s not a surprise? He’s probably pissed.
But as I study his face, see the pain etched into his familiar features, the way his gaze trails after me as I approach, I can tell he’s not really angry at all.
He looks downright sad.
I unlock and then open the door, shivering when the brisk cold air hits me. “What are you doing here?”
His expression solemn, he asks, “Can I come in?”
Emotions war within me. I should tell him no, even though my automatic reaction is to say yes. “There’s a reason I didn’t meet you at the Pizza Factory tonight.”
He shoves his hands into the front pocket of his black hoodie. “Let me guess. It has everything to do with Cami.”
“She said you asked her to meet you there.” When he frowns, I explain further. “At Pete’s.”
The words linger between us as he studies me, his expression switching from surprise to disgust in a matter of seconds. He makes a dismissive noise. “She would say that.”
“So it’s true?” My heart sinks. I’d kind of hoped she was lying to me.
“Of course not. We’re not together. We were never really together,” he says.
I hold up my hand. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Why not? She’s one of the main reasons we broke up.”
Cami Lockhart was definitely one of the main reasons, but there were other things. His bad attitude for one. How quick he was to anger. We fought a lot. He became so needy, demanding all of my time when I couldn’t give it to him. He wanted me at his beck and call, but I was busy. School. Volleyball. My friends. I wasn’t going to give up everything for him. I didn’t want to lose myself.
Besides, he was busy too. It was difficult, getting our schedules to coincide.
I always figured my unavailability drove him into Cami’s arms. The rumors began when I went to Mammoth for a volleyball tournament for the weekend. People whispered about him and Cami flirting at one of Tony’s parties. This happened a few times. Until it all blew up in my face during homecoming week, which was a nightmare.
When I didn’t make it as a finalist for homecoming queen and Cami did? That was the end. I broke up with him that night, after telling him I was pregnant, though he refused to believe me.
Who does that?
Another shiver steals over me, and I go to close the door. “Let’s have this conversation another night.”
“No.” He steps forward, placing his hand on the door and stopping its progression. “Let me in, Jos. We need to talk. About our future. About our baby.”
I’d love to slam the door in his face and tell him to go to hell, but the responsible part of me says I can’t. Diego is right.
We need to talk. About our baby.
A deep sigh leaves me as I open the door wider and let him inside.
He walks in as if he belongs here, and I remember the last time he came over. When my parents invited him over for dinner and they ended up making him feel like shit for who he is.
What he is.
He’d been so upset. Almost crying, I swear. I’d tried to comfort him, and he’d looked me straight in the eyes, his expression deadly serious, before he said, “I’ll prove to them I’m worthy of you, Jocelyn. I swear to fucking God I will.”
Now look. He lived up to their low expectations. My parents knew he’d end up being a great disappointment, and they were right.
“You want a cookie?” I already have one sheet cooked, and it’s sitting on top of the stove where I left it to cool. Luckily enough, I didn’t put another cookie sheet in the oven before I noticed Diego, or else I probably would’ve burned them.
“I’ll take two if you don’t mind,” he says.
I busy myself in the kitchen, grabbing the spatula and sliding off two cookies onto a napkin before I bring them to Diego. He’s settled in at the kitchen nook table, eyeing the cookies greedily when I hand them to him.
“Thanks,” he says, shoving half the cookie in his mouth. His eyes nearly close as he mumbles, “Oh my God, so good.”
He always did like chocolate chip cookies. Who doesn’t? “You want a glass of milk?”
“Please,” he says, cramming the rest of the cookie into his mouth.
I pour him a glass of milk and take it to him, then continue bustling around the kitchen. I place the rest of the already cooked cookies on a plate and then bring the sheet over to the island, where I drop more dough onto it. The timer goes off and I check my cookies, then switch out the sheets and start a new batch.
Diego watches me, and I wonder if he knows I’m trying my best to avoid him. Yes, I know this conversation needs to happen, but no, I don’t really want to deal with it right now. I’m scared.
Scared of the unknown. Scared about this baby. I know nothing about being a mom. How am I supposed to do this all by myself? Yes, I’ll have my mom’s support, but I’m going to be responsible for another human being’s life.
I’m barely responsible for my own life. I’m kind of a wreck sometimes.
It’s when I slide the last cookie sheet of dough into the oven that Diego finally says something.
“Why did you decide to keep it?”
I let the oven door slam shut, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You used that, ‘it’s my body, I can do what I want’ speech on me at one point, and I figured you’d—you know. Get an abortion.”
I lean my back against the kitchen counter, remembering when I told him that. He’d been trying to tell me what to do, and I wouldn’t have it. “I thought about it. Having an abortion. It probably would’ve been easier.”
He nods, his expression blank.
“But the more I thought about doing it, the more scared I became. And sad. I couldn’t just—destroy another human being’s life because I’m too young to have a baby. It broke my heart just thinking about it,” I explain, knowing I’m not doing a very good job. “I would never judge someone who has to make this kind of decision. It’s so difficult. And if their choice is abortion, that’s okay. But I couldn’t let that be my choice. I couldn’t destroy something that we—we made.”