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I hug my middle and take a few deep breaths. I need to get through this next day, and then I’ll talk to him. I know he’s on edge. I know there’s something massive going on inside him, and picking a fight the day Tabby leaves is shitty.
But once she’s gone, if he doesn’t come around, I’m going to have to make a choice.
I don’t know what will happen between us, but I know for a fact that I can’t live like this. I have to talk to someone, or I’m going to fall apart.
I want my mother.
The moment I think of her, I miss her terribly. I scoop my phone off my bedside table. My heart hammers in my chest because I know the consequences, but I don’t care anymore.
I need to tell her, and the more I think about telling her, the more I miss her, and the less I care about the blackmail. Let them post it. I just want to go home.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” she says, but her voice is distant and distracted. She’s working. She’s always working. I sink into the bed and fight my trembling lip.
“Hey,” I say, tucking a pillow between my knees. It’s so much easier to lie down like this. The guilt gnaws at me. I have to tell her now.
“Are you okay? You sound upset.” Mom’s voice strengthens as her attention comes entirely to me. My heart pounds, my eyes fill with tears, and all the stress and choices and unknowns and futures pile on me.
“I’m not okay,” I say with a quiver. “I have something to tell you.”
She breathes on the other end of the line—that motherly sigh that tells me she knows what’s coming.
“I’m pregnant.” I rush the words out, and Mom makes a coughing noise.
“Wait, what?” Her voice pitches up like this fuck-up was not the one she had in mind.
“I met a guy on my trip. We were safe, but it didn’t work,” I whisper, embarrassed to talk about this with her. Mom and I are close, but we don’t talk like this in our family.
“And is a baby the only thing you caught from this boy?”
“Oh my God, Mama.” I throw my arm over my face.
“I’m serious.”
“Yes. When I went to the hospital in Alaska, they did the pregnancy test and a full STI check. A baby is all I got.”
She lets out a full breath. “A baby is one of the lifelong ones.”
Silence falls over us, and I let her have this time. I know my mom. She’s planning, scheming, spinning this.
“You’re keeping it, I presume.”
“Him. I’m keeping him. I’m twenty-nine weeks.”
“What!” Mom shrieks. “Twenty-nine weeks. For the love of God, Nova. Where are you? Where are you staying? How are you keeping in touch with your doctor? What is this doing to you?”
Her complete, overbearing concern flows freely through the phone and buries me in guilt. I should have told her a long time ago.
“I’m fine. My symptoms have actually regressed. I’m still clumsy. But I feel good physically.”
“And mentally?”
“I miss you. I miss home.” I curl up in bed, fighting to keep steady.
“Why don’t you come home?”
“He wants to be involved. His name is Ezekiel. He lives in Canada, and I’m staying with his family. They are wonderful people and are taking care of me. I’m completely safe. I’ve been here since September.”
“Oh, Nova.”
