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Judging by his pale face and unfocused trance, I’ll need to trickle out my situation, giving him a series of jabs to the gut rather than one big steel-toed-boot kick to the nuts.
I’m not sure I’ll tell him about the blackmail at all. That has nothing to do with him or the baby. Ever since Dru’s accident, the threatening messages have slowed down. They used to be daily. It’s been a few weeks since the last one, and I’m terrified of what will happen if I tell anyone.
When I spoke to my dad and hinted that I was in trouble, Dru ended up in hospital with a broken arm the next day. I can’t risk that again. All Zeke gets is this baby. He doesn’t need to know anything else.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, like it’s stuck in my mind on a loop—like a bad chorus in a popular song, an earworm that sticks no matter what.
“Why are you sorry?” he asks, clasping his hands around his knees as he sits in the dirt. His nails are stained black, and his long fingers and thick palms suck up all my attention.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “For all of it.”
“Pretty sure I was an enthusiastic participant in this,” he says, and I bite my lip to keep from crying again. God, these hormones are awful. “What are you planning on doing about it?”
“Doing about it?” I ask, tucking a loose chunk of hair behind my ear. Raging fear pumps through me, making it hard to hear. “Like, am I going to keep it?”
Zeke’s eyes are wild, and terror flares through them. He glances over his shoulder to the run-down cabin. The place he’s staying with his girlfriend.
I rock slowly, trying not to puke.
“Yeah. Are you keeping it?”
“I am.” I stare at my fingernails, picking dirt from under one of them to mask the shaking. The doctor and I talked through my options, and I knew adoption wasn’t an option right away, and I’d have had to move quickly for an abortion. Neither of those sat well in my heart. Not that I’m against them, but the feeling was strong. Like when I met Zeke, it was intense and immediate. I just knew.
Now that I’m here in front of him again, it all seems so ridiculous. I’m nineteen, how could I possibly just know?
“Where are you even from? What am I supposed to do here?” Zeke’s voice pitches up in a frantic scramble for answers.
“I’m from Alabama. And I don’t have a clue. I thought—I just thought I should tell you.” I neglect to mention Nashville. There’s too high a chance he’ll realize who I am. Right now, he doesn’t appear to be the kind of guy who would know my history as an influencer or Mama’s record label. The risk is still there, keeping my truth hidden.
Zeke drops his head into his hands and scrubs his face. He jams his fingers into his hair and grips it. It’s shorter than when I was with him. I remember the soft, thick strands in my fist, my nails pulling through the scruff on his chin as I kissed him. He looks cleaner-shaven now but still handsome in a roguish way.
His gaze suddenly softens as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
“Are you staying in town for a few days?” he asks, deep and trembling. Uncertain. “Can we, like, meet or something? Later? I, um…”
He looks back to the cabin again, the fear returning as his shoulders tense up again. Guilt tugs at me and then freezes in my gut.
“Were you with her? At the time?” I ask, my words coated with horror, and he whips his head around so fast I hear a slight crack in his neck.
“What? Why would you think that?” It’s forceful and sends me back on my heels. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever speaks in statements or if it’s all questions. The urge to escape this discomfort drives me to move.
I stand, and his gaze travels down my body, landing on my stomach. I think I’ve broken him, and I feel awful. Not only about that, but I’m hungry, and my feet hurt, and my fingers are totally numb. I want to go back to my van and cry. I might be done running, but it’s been replaced by an urge to hide.
Usually, I could hide behind my loud-mouthed sister, unafraid to put anyone in their place. Or my busy-body Mother constantly in search of the spotlight. Or my protective father, who likes to make decisions for me.
Out here it’s just me. He’s only looking at me.
“I’m staying for a bit. In my van at the park.”
He looks at the camper, then me. “Okay.”
I reach out to help him up with slight hesitation, and he takes my hand. The roughness of his skin is familiar, and more memories drag to the surface as he rises—the way those palms slid up my sides and gripped my ribs as he pushed me into the glass door. My breath hitches in the exact same way it did that day, and his gaze flickers to my mouth.
With him standing right in front of me, the breadth of his shoulders overshadowing mine, I’m reminded of what got me into this mess to begin with. He’s a beautiful man, and I hate that his body is all I’m thinking about now. Maybe it’s all my brain can handle. Keeping it surface level and superficial is what’s saving me from drowning in this uncertainty. This should be easy. My whole life is superficial. With him, I struggle to stay out of the deep.
He still looks terrified, not having had the processing time. His gaze travels down from my mouth to our hands. There’s a slowness to his movements that feels deliberate, his words hidden away behind spinning thoughts. He takes in everything, and I’m dizzy from his stare.
“We can figure this out. Meet tomorrow night? At the little diner downtown?” I ask softly, and his eyes snap back to mine.
