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I couldn’t kid myself anymore. Staying in Boston at this point was a death wish. Might as well stick an I’m With Stupid sign on my forehead pointing at my brain.
Several people wanted me dead. And I just signed my soul away to the devil in stilettos.
It was time to lay low until I came up with a game plan.
My parents lived in the place where sex appeal went to die, also known as Wellesley, Massachusetts.
A few years ago, my parents announced excitedly that they’d saved up enough money to fulfill their long-time dream of becoming boring retirees, moved from Southie and bought a sage green colonial house with a matching roof, a swinging chair on the front porch, and red shutters.
Persy and I called it the Gingerbread House, but only one of us was excited to come here each Christmas and play the happy family charade.
“Oh, Belly-Belle, I’m so happy you’re with us again, even if the circumstances are less than ideal.” Mom poked her head through the backyard’s double doors, offering me an apologetic smile.
Perched on the lip of the pool they were so proud of, I dipped my feet in the water, wiggling my toes.
“Already told you, Mom, everything’s fine.”
“Nothing’s fine if you can’t afford your apartment anymore.”
She walked out to the patio carrying a bowl of watermelon peppered with fresh feta cheese and mint.
Placing it on the edge of the pool beside me, she ran her hand over the yellow Lycra of my bathing suit, her fingers halting at my swollen belly.
“I moved in because I need a change of pace, not because I can’t afford rent.” I selected a beautifully cut piece of watermelon—square and sharp angled—and popped it into my mouth. It was ice cold. “Everyone I know and their mother begged me to step away from Madame Mayhem. They think working on my feet all day is bad for the baby.”
Mom didn’t know that there were people after me.
She didn’t know about the letters.
She didn’t know I’d lived the last few weeks with Devon.
She didn’t know anything.
I did this to protect her.
Making her worry was futile, almost cruel.
And something else lurked behind my decision to share with her the bare minimum of my pregnancy circumstances. I suspected she wouldn’t understand.
Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure I understood everything that’d happened to me recently.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” She began untangling my golden locks from my earring, like she used to do when I was a kid. “You’ve been here for a couple days now and still haven’t told us why exactly.”
“Can’t a girl just chill with her folks?”
“I don’t remember a time when you didn’t go out at night since you were sixteen.”
Well, Mom, I did a lot to try and distract myself from my reality at that age.
But then, I was a clubber six months ago too. I’d distracted myself for fourteen years before Devon stepped into my life and forced me to stay still and take a good look at what my life had become.
I pushed another watermelon chunk between my lips, watching her black-eyed Susans across the pool, their stems like necks craning to look up at the sun, the petals glinting under the sun’s rays.
“Come with me to the farmer’s market. You’ll meet all my new bridge friends,” Mom suggested.
“Holy shit, Mom, you’re really selling this to me,” I deadpanned, hands tucked under my butt.
“Come on, Belly-Belle. I can see something’s on your mind.”
“You can?” I frowned at my toes. “How?”
“A mother can always tell.”
Was I going to know when my baby felt something once they were born without any telltale signs? Would my gut scream at me that something was wrong? Could I pick up on the vibes, like fumes from fire, before the earth beneath her feet scorched?
“Yes,” my mother said as if reading my mind. She rested her hand on my back. I wanted to fold into a fetal position and cry in her lap. The last few months caught up with me all at once, and now I was exhausted.
More than I was afraid of those who were after me, and more than I was angry at myself for taking Louisa’s deal, I missed Devon.
Missed him so much I couldn’t bring myself to turn on my phone for the past couple days and check if I had any messages from him.
I missed his gruff, elegant laugh and the way his dark blond eyebrows moved animatedly when he talked.
I missed his kisses and the crinkles around his eyes when he grinned mischievously and the way he called the guy who worked at the convenience store under his apartment the newsagent, like he was a BBC anchor and not a dudebro who sold overpriced milk and cigarettes.
In short, I missed him.
Too much to trust myself to go back to Boston.
