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Logan wraps his arms around me and I lean into him. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s over,” I repeat. How can I get any clearer than that?
“For good?”
“Maybe.” How pathetic am I that I’m still holding onto hope?
“Aw, Syd. I’m sorry.”
Somehow, I don’t think he really means it. I cry on his shoulder for a while, but when I hear doors shutting outside, I go upstairs to my room. I stay in bed for the rest of the night. What does it mean that he never thought about her while he was with me? Does that mean anything? It’s still wrong, so I shouldn’t get my hopes up over it. Ian keeps saying he doesn’t want me. Why would he start lying to me now? He must have meant it.
The next morning, I head to the hotel first thing. I don’t want to end on a bad note even though we’re ending. I knock on his door for five minutes and there’s no answer. Surely, he’s not going to ignore me. Oh god. What if he’s already left? He wouldn’t, would he?
“Excuse me,” I say to the receptionist. “Can you tell me if the person in room 205 checked out this morning?”
She does a quick check. “He actually checked out last night.”
“Thanks.”
Damn it. There’s no time to cry. I have a stupid graduation to get ready for.
Two months pass. I’m a horrible human being because all I’ve wanted to do is text Ian and say that I don’t care what kind of person it makes me, I’ll have him any way he wants me. I haven’t done that, but it’s bad that I want to. I miss him so much. We haven’t talked at all. Not one text. It’s good since he has a girlfriend and since I’m in love with someone who apparently doesn’t love me at all, but we were friends, too.
If we were to talk again, I’d have to keep my distance. Friends only is exactly what we would be. My heart still feels like it’s burning from the pain. My stomach rolls. Ugh. I rush to the bathroom for the billiont
h time to throw up. I’ve been sick for what feels like forever. Sometimes, I feel decent, and then others, I don’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. At least I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. I can’t keep going on like this.
“Still feeling bad?” Carey asks as she comes into my room.
“Yeah. Between the puking and the exhaustion, I’m hardly enjoying my summer.”
She sits on the edge of my bed. “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
I momentarily freeze as I crawl into bed. “What? No.” I slide under the covers. “I mean, my last period was...” My voice trails off. “The last time I had sex was...” Shit. Ian and I didn’t use protection last time we were together. I haven’t had a period since then either. Oh my god. This can’t be happening. “Will you go with me to the store?” I can’t wait until tomorrow to ask the doctor about it.
“Yeah,” she says softly. I get dressed and we leave the house to drive a few towns over. I don’t want to chance anyone seeing me. On the drive there, Carey asks, “What if you are?”
“I don’t know.” I’m supposed to start college in the fall. Ian doesn’t live here; we aren’t even talking right now! What are we going to do if I’m pregnant? How could we be so stupid? How did we not think about it? Why did I never think to get on birth control? All of these questions are possibly coming way too late.
I buy a pregnancy test and go into the store’s bathroom to take it. An agonizing few minutes pass. I nearly faint when I see the results.
“We aren’t talking,” I whisper. “He doesn’t want to be with me, Carey. Why would he want anything to do with this baby? How am I supposed to tell him? I don’t have his number anymore.” Having his number in my phone was too tempting. Logan is the one who deleted his number and our thread of texts. I have no way of contacting him.
“You can’t find him online?”
“He’s not on it.”
“Maybe get up with his dad and do it that way?”
That might work. Mr. Rhett’s phone number might be listed in the phone book and Dad could get that for me. I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow, call Mr. Rhett, and tell him to get Ian to call me.
Logan and Carey both go to the doctor with me. I’m two months along in my pregnancy. They hug me as I cry. This changes everything. I have to tell my parents, too. But first, I need to get in touch with Mr. Rhett. Dad texted me his number last night. I wait until around six that evening to call Mr. Rhett.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mr. Rhett. It’s Sydney Jarvis.”
“Oh, Sydney. How are you?” He sounds less than thrilled to hear from me.
