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* * *
A funny feeling constricts my chest as I stare at the phone number hastily scribbled on an ice cream stained napkin.
“Call me,” Luna says as she hands it over, less of a request, more of a non-negotiable. “I mean it. I get aggressive when ignored.”
If I wasn’t pretty positive she’s not joking, I would laugh.
With a promise to oblige that I, to be completely honest, have no intention of keeping for a whole wealth of reasons, I wave Luna and Isaac goodbye.
“Crap.”
I eye the kid who, at some point in the last month, has developed one hell of a mouth, sighing when he holds up his borrowed-and-not-returned helmet. “Run,” I drawl, playfully shoving him words the truck the Jackson-Evans’ are climbing into. “No need to add theft to today’s list of offenses.”
Like a true criminal, August only smirks at my joke.
As he runs off, I sigh again, wondering how long that smirk will last. Probably up until I inevitably have to ask how the last twenty-four hours with his dad went, and he inevitably has to tell me they were as awful as the ten minutes I spent with him were.
I don’t know if I can go on like this. Not if it’s the same every time, which my gut tells me it will be. John acting like a hero for showing up only to complain and criticize the whole time, and make out like I'm the bad guy for cutting things short and refusing to give into his rash demands. It’s tiring and it’s not fair, to me or to August, but every time I search for an alternative, I come up empty.
Legally, if I put a stop to the visits, John can’t do anything. Nothing quick, anyway. Every day, I thank my past self for being wise beyond her years and not putting him on August’s birth certificate, preemptively denying him of any rights he didn’t deserve. Because of that stroke of admittedly extremely petty genius, it would be a hell of a process, taking August from me. Honestly, I don’t think he has the will, the money, or the interest to do it the long way but you never know—I never thought he, as a popular, good-looking, motorcycle-riding college freshman would ever show any interest in me, a lowly, plain, relatively friendless highschool freshman either. Or that he would leave me single, pregnant, and heartbroken either. Or change his mind and make a nonsense claim for my kid.
Moral of the story, expect the unexpected. Protect my little family. Ask Willow Lane, Esquire, if there’s anything she can—
“Ms. Lane.”
Right. My problems come in threes; number two wants attention.
“Ms. Lane,” I repeat, my laugh far from amused. “Seriously?”
“My bad.Mrs.Lane?”
I’d have to be as thick as a freaking brick wall not to catch his implication, and I flush with a) anger because fuck him for basically calling me an adulterous whore and b) embarrassment because fuck him twice for thinking I’d marryJohn.
Obviously, I onlysleepwith assholes. I don’tmarrythem. That would bepathetic.
Teeth clenched, I correct Cass’ ludicrous suggestion. “It’sMs.”And fuck you three times.
Cass doesn’t look convinced. Whatever. I don’t have time for this. I have a little boy who needs distracting from the doom and gloom of his unfortunate paternity.
I should know by now that Cass is fond of having the final word—he doesn’t let me go without another quip. “Keep your boyfriend off my field. This isn’t the place for a lover’s spat.”
I could set him straight but what's the point? He doesn’t believe a word I ever say, and I don’t have the energy to keep trying. I’m tired of him, of this day, of everything. Too tired to control my emotions or my tongue which is why I blurt, “Is this gonna be a regular thing? You making me feel like shit? Because trust me, darlin’, you’re gonna have to get in line.”
And then, the most miraculous thing happens; an emotion other than contempt flashes across Cass’ face. Even more miraculous? I swear it’s guilt. Regret, at the very least. Some kind of actual human emotion that makes me wannaoohandahh‘cause who knew that existed? Not me.
It’s fleeting, lasting just long enough for me to identify it, short enough that I pass it off as a hallucination. A trick of the light. Some kind of wishful thinking because oh, how nice it would be if one of the men I’ve slept with had a conscience.
Alas, I’m not so lucky. I’m destined to a life of sexual regret, as is made abundantly clear when Cass makes like my only other conquest and fucks off without another word, leaving me to consider a life of chastity, if only so I never have to deal with another man again.
* * *
August is quiet on the drive home.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be worried—quiet is kind of August’s default—but this is different. The silence between us isn’t the usual, comfortable kind. It’s a sad, mopey one that makes my chest ache and my head hurt and the bile plaguing the back of my throat—an unfortunate side effect of a John-tainted day—creep a little higher.
“Everything good, Augustus Gloop?”
Neither a smile nor a scowl blooms, concerning if only because the nickname always incites one or the other. “Yeah.”
