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m telling myself a lie.
I love her.
She was my only female friend. The only one who understood why I wanted to hide this pregnancy—the only one.
And as much as I didn’t get my happily ever after, she didn’t either. And that kills me. She deserved to live a long, happy life. She deserved to have time to decide if she wanted to find her child she gave up to protect. She deserved more time, and now she’s gone.
I drop my pen. I can’t write anymore. These notes were a stupid idea. I can’t let go of people I love. I can’t let go of the pain. I can’t let go of any of it.
I rip off the note I started writing for Liesel and let the pieces fall into the river. Then I rip another piece from the notebook and do the same with that one.
This actually feels good. So I rip another and another as more tears fall, anger spreads, and pain consumes me.
“You know that’s littering,” Beckett says.
I keep ripping the last page of the notebook. “So fine me. But the world owes me. I think I deserve a moment to litter if it makes me feel better.”
“I’m not judging,” Beckett says, leaning over the railing of the bridge next to me.
I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t know how much he knows about my past. I don’t know what my father has told him. But I still have my suspicions about him. I don’t think he’s just a fisherman, even though he looks the part. He’s wearing cargo pants and a flannel shirt. And he does smell like fish.
“You smell,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. He probably thinks I’m crying because of pregnancy hormones.
“We live in Alaska; everyone smells like fish.”
I sigh.
“Want to tell me what the ripping up the tiny pieces of paper was about?”
“Nope.”
He nods. “Want to go get a coffee with me?”
“I can’t drink caffeine; it could hurt the baby.”
“Oh.” He stares at my huge stomach. I’m only a little over half-way through the pregnancy, but I can’t imagine my stomach growing any more than it already has. “Well, not too much longer, and then you’ll be able to have caffeine again once the baby is born.”
I frown. “When do you think the baby is due?”
“A week or two?”
I laugh. “I look that big, huh? I’m just over half-way through. I still have months left.”
His eyes bulge in his head. “Really? I don’t think your stomach has any more room to grow.”
“Well, that’s a helpful comment,” I growl snakily.
He laughs. “Sorry, I don’t know what to say around pregnant women.”
“But you do know how to talk around people, right?”
He nods, laughing harder now. “You have a lot of spunk. You are a lot like your father; you know that?”
I shake my head and turn back to the water. “I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He isn’t really my father.”
