At this point, I’m used to spills and messes all over the carpet, so I have an immaculate cleaning spray in the kitchen, and I’m able to get it all up easily. I’m sure I’ll run the carpet cleaner machine over it tomorrow, but this is good enough for now.
Carefully taking Ellie Mae from Charley, I transfer her to the crib, thankfully not waking her up. Back in the living room, I run my gaze over the front of Charley. “Did any get on you? I can get you a shirt and a towel if you want to rinse off in the shower.”
“I’m all good,” she offers, shaking her head. “I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to get her into the bath without getting any of it on me.”
“Okay, good. Want some water?”
“Sure.”
Following me into the kitchen, Charley sits on one of the bar stools on the island as I grab two bottles of water from the fridge,handing her one before twisting off the cap on the other and guzzling half of it in one go.
“Thank you again,” I say, standing in front of her on the other side of the island. “You didn’t have to do that.” I huff out a small chuckle. “So, thank you.”
“Well, I couldn’t sit here and watch you flail on the baby monitor.” Charley snorts as my cheeks heat. “Nothing would’ve gotten done with you walking around the room like a chicken with your head cut off.”
“Okay, alright. I would’ve kicked into gear eventually, thank you very much.”
“Sure,” Charley muses. “After your mammoth of a dog feasted and Ellie Mae had vomit-soaked pajamas stuck to her.”
“Stop.” Holding up a hand, my chest heaves as I gag. “That’s enough, or else I’m gonna puke.”
Throwing her head back on her shoulders, laughter bubbles past Charley’s lips, and for a moment, I almost forget how she was crying in my shop a half hour ago. But as the gentle, sweet sound fades, our eyes meet, and it’s sobering.
For both of us.
“Charley, I have to ask…” I murmur, my stomach twisting into a knot. “Are you sure this is what you want? Or do you feel like it’s the option youshouldmake? Because when I say I support your decision one hundred percent, I mean it. If you want to have an abortion, I’ll be there, holding your hand through it at the clinic, but if you do want to have this baby, I will still support you and be there one hundred percent.” Clearing my throat, I add, “You wouldn’t do it alone. Any of it.”
She chews on the inside of her cheek as her eyes, glossy and bloodshot, cast downward to the water bottle she’s rolling between her hands. “This is what’s best, Graham,” she croaks before meeting my gaze again. Her chin quivers. “And it’s what I want.”
I wish those words didn’t feel like such a punch to the gut. I’m a firm believer in bodily autonomy and a woman’s right to choose. I also believe men should never make decisions about women’s bodies. Charley is well within her right to do this, and I meant it when I said I’d support whatever choice she made, butgoddamn,how I wish it was different. So, even though it pains me to accept it, I do it anyway.
“Okay, what do we do next?” I ask, hoping she can’t hear the thick emotion in my voice. “What can I do?”
“I found a place and already made an appointment,” she says. “It’s Friday, but I know you have work and Ellie Mae. I don’t expect you to drop everything and come with me.”
“You’re not doing this alone. I’m coming with you, Charley.”
Clenching her jaw, she nods, a tear escaping down her cheek. “Thank you.”
I round the island and pull her into me, wrapping my arms around her shoulders as hers come around my waist. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper, my cheek against the side of her head, and I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more.
After a couple of minutes, we finally pull apart, and Charley peers up at me. “I’m gonna go,” she says softly. “It’s late. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.”
Walking her out to her car, and then watching her drive away, I’ve never felt more torn about what I know I should do and what I want.
God, this fucking sucks.
8
Charley, 9 weeks
“It’s ridiculous how much nicer the roads are up here,” Graham murmurs, gazing straight ahead, one hand gripping the wheel, the other on the gearshift. “As soon as we cross over the state line, there’re hardly any potholes.”
“That is ridiculous,” I offer before looking out the window. My mind is a million miles away, and I haven’t been able to focus on anything all week. Which is really inconvenient, considering all the studying I should’ve been doing.
Huffing out a dry laugh, he adds, “You’d think with all the money we pay in taxes in South Carolina, the roads would be immaculate.”
He’s making small talk. He’s done it since he picked me up this morning. I think he’s nervous, and this is probably his way of calming those nerves. Which is the only reason I haven’t snapped at him to shut the hell up yet, because the last thing I want to do is chit-chat, especially about the freaking condition of the roads.
