Page 60 of I Wish You Were Mine

“What the fuck did I tell you about keeping your door locked?” I say to the silence that greets me.

The apartment is tidy. Same as it was the last time I was here, that night I can’t forget to save my life.

Nothing—no one—in the kitchen. I duck into her bedroom. Try very hard not to think about the things we did in the neatly made king bed over there.

The bathroom door is open. Lights are on. I duck inside, and that’s when I see it.

A white stick with a pink tip on the countertop. The instruction pamphlet is laid out beside it, the paper still creased from where it was folded.

My stomach pitches, sending a fist up the back of my throat. I move closer to get a better look.

I’d know those two pink lines anywhere.

Maren is pregnant.

The saliva in my mouth thickens. It’s me. In my gut I know I’m the one who did this to her. The memory hits me like a freight train: slipping inside her, bare. Lingering there for just long enough to apparently knock her up.

I lunge for the toilet. I retch, once, but nothing comes out.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I will my stomach to settle. I gotta go find her. The panic I’m feeling probably pales in comparison to what she’s going through.

She’s young. Alone. No doubt scared out of her goddamn mind. I’m the (much) older one, and I should’ve known better than to so much as lay a finger on her without a condom on.

I should’ve taken better care of her.

This is my fault. My fuck-up.

Anger grips my windpipe and squeezes. I grab my phone out of my pocket and hit her number again. Again, she doesn’t answer. I call her a second time. A third. I send another text.We need to talk now.

Still no response.

Pulse pounding in my temples, I stalk out of the apartment, stopping only to open the door to the house on my way to the driveway.

“Jen, I’ll be right back!” I shout.

“Okay! Where are you going?” she shouts back.

I don’t answer. I hop in my golf cart—shit, the other is gone—and whip out of the driveway. It’s a beautiful night for a drive, cool but not chilly. The sunset lights the sky on fire, covering the island in a thick golden blanket.

I race to the beach. I don’t know how I know that Maren will be there, but I do. It’s where I go when I run. Literally.

I find my other golf cart parked in the lot by the tennis courts on South Beach. I jerk to a stop in the spot beside it and bolt up the stairs on the dunes.

The ocean roars beneath a technicolor sky. The water is usually calm this time of day, but right now the waves are huge, pounding against the beach in an angry, relentless riot of sound and spray.

Holding my hand to my forehead, I look left and there she is.

A tiny figure retreating down the beach, her back to me.

“Maren!” I shout. “Maren, stop. Right fucking now.”

She glances over her shoulder. Even from here, I can see her cheeks glisten with tears. Her eyes are red.

My chest caves in. I run.

I jump down the stairs and I run to her.

thirteen

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