“Sixteen-year-old Jazz. My boyfriend at the time swore it’dbe fine that we ran out of condoms. Turns out, it wasn’t fine. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”
That makes my jaw drop open.
When I’m done taking a sample and dipping the stick, I set it on the counter and tell my phone to set a timer.
“What happened?” I ask and turn to the sink.
In the mirror, she shrugs, but her face turns red. “I got an abortion.”
The admission hangs heavily between us for a long moment.
“It was the right decision at the time.” Her voice is thick with an emotion I can’t place. “My parents didn’t force me into it, they told me it was my life, my body, and I could make the choice.”
She takes my hand once I’m done drying. “I have been where I suspect you’re about to be. You’re going to need to make a decision, Vic. And it’s not one anyone else can make for you.”
Shaking my head, I wring my hands in front of my stomach. There’s no way. All this panic and anxiety is for nothing. It’s going to be the stomach flu or a virus—there’s no way the stick will say I’m pregnant. None.
It’s bad enough I didn’t get Loki’s number, but the fact that he hasn’t reached out seeps a little deeper under my skin. If Iampregnant, how can I tell him? How can I give him the option to be a part of his child’s life when I don’t even know his real name?
The timer goes off, and Jazz and I lock gazes for what feels like an eternity.
“You’ve got this.”
I most definitely don’t got this.
With a shaky hand, I pick up the stick from the counter. “See? I told you.” I smile, relief sinking in. “There’s no way I’m—fuck.”
The test clatters into the sink, my numb fingers unable to hold it.
The sympathetic stare from my best friend is nearly unbearable.
“Jazz.” My voice cracks as my jaw trembles. “I’m pregnant.”
CHAPTER 8
Victoria
(THREE YEARS LATER/PRESENT DAY)
The worst thing about getting pregnant in my freshman year wasn’t the leg cramps, or the nausea, it wasn’t the night feeds on top of assignment deadlines. It wasn’t the permanent bird’s nest of matted curls on top of my head, the constant lukewarm meals, or even the lingering smell of baby puke that followed me around everywhere I went.
The worst thing about getting pregnant in my freshman year was the unspoken judgment, the shame, the overwhelming loneliness.
Jazz and I drifted apart as soon as I decided to keep the baby. I guess it was too hard for her to be a character in an alternative life to the one she chose. It was never anything direct, no outward confrontation, but “all party, all the time” didn’t quite vibe with boob feeding a teething tiny parasite going through a growth spurt.
It got worse when I dropped out of the business program. I had to pivot from studying to be a paralegal into photography. Jazz and I drifted even further. As much as I wanted to gointo a legal career, I just couldn’t keep my head in the game enough to make it happen.
Not to mention the fact that I needed to study something that would earn money faster. Becoming a photographer wasn’t my dream, but I’m good at it. I have a good eye, and can capture the mood of a session as easily as breathing.
And when my adviser “kindly” suggested I had missed too much of school to catch up in my original classes, it was both a relief and a gut punch.
Over three years later, I’m freelancing on the side of finishing up my photography course, while raising a tiny human to not be a dick.
It’s harder than you’d think, raising kids to not be dickish. It’s like they’re born with all your worst traits, and you’ve gotta spend your life deprogramming them so they don’t end up in prison.
The real kind.
Ugh. I need a friend. Mom’s great, and we’re close, but sometimes I just want some girl time with someone my own age, y’know?
