22
24 weeks
Issues - Julia Michaels Just a Girl - No Doubt
“ I t’s so nice to be back,” Isla says, her voice laced with relief.
She’s talking about her week at the animal hospital while I dive into my lunch. The first bite of charcoal chicken hits the spot—like my life depends on it. I chew, nodding along as she recounts. “Grace has been a godsend with Callie. I swear, I was going stir-crazy at home. And it’s good to be back with the animals—so much drama already. Had a husky puppy come in with a stick lodged in its throat! Took us ages to calm him down enough to get it out. And now he’s on meds, and his poor owner’s struggling to get him to take them.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “It’s always the stubborn ones that get themselves into the most trouble, right?”
I poke at my chips, barely tasting them as my mind keeps drifting back to Harrison’s words from that morning. It’s been two weeks since he opened up to me—and since we had sex at his shop. Everything seemed fine after that, but now, things feel different.
Sure, he’s probably dealing with a lot—both in his head and at work—but he hasn’t said much. Just quick greetings and brief conversations about random things, like the weather or what’s on TV. It feels like we’re drifting, stuck in some kind of limbo. I know dealing with everything he’s been through isn’t easy, and I’m not expecting immediate answers, but I can’t help but wonder what’s going on.
“Hello? Earth to Imogen.” Isla’s voice pulls me back.
“Sorry,” I mumble, setting my fork down. “Stubborn animals. Yeah, yeah. Got it.”
She arches her brow, not buying it. “I know when something’s up with you. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
I sigh heavily, scanning the empty street like it might offer me a secret escape route. But it’s just us, the picnic table, and no place to hide. “It’s nothing.”
“Imogen…” she prompts with a frown. Well, I can’t wiggle my way out of this one.
“Harrison told me something the other night.”
Her frown deepens. “What did he say? Is everything alright?”
“Uh, well, it’s about his past.” I hesitate, glancing away. “I’m not sure I should be repeating it.”
“Oh, okay,” Isla replies softly. “His past, as in, how he grew up?”
I nod.
“I know bits and pieces, but not much,” Isla says. “You don’t have to tell me. I won’t push.”
Bits and pieces. Of course she does. Xavier probably filled her in. Frustration tightens my chest, and before I can stop it, a lump rises in my throat. My eyes sting, tears threatening to fall. I blink them away, swallowing hard.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Did you guys have an argument?” Isla’s hand reaches out to rest on mine.
I blink away the tears that have already started to fall. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she tsks . “It could be your hormones. It’s normal. You’re allowed to feel whatever you’re feeling.”
I snort, shaking my head. No, this doesn’t feel like hormones. This feels like two-weeks-worth of bottled-up frustration, suddenly crashing down all at once. Harrison shutting me out. Everything he’s been through. How fucked up it all is. I wipe my face again, but the tears keep coming, uninvited.
“He was fine after he opened up,” I say, clearing my throat. “We went on a job together, and he was… touchy. Very touchy.” I blush at the memory of him and I. Against the hood. Grease everywhere. “Affectionate. Then, just like that—nothing. He barely even looks at me now.” I don’t mention the ache in my chest, the way it deepens every time he pulls away. Or how, deep down, I might care more than I’m ready to admit.
Isla squeezes my hand. “Hm. Xavier told me Michael noticed it at work, too. Said Harrison’s been snapping at customers, almost lost it with one of the mechanics. He’s not himself.”
No, he definitely isn’t. I need to find a way to cut through the noise in his head.
Isla tilts her head, her brows furrowed. “Do you think something happened to set him off? Did anything change recently?”
I bite my lip, trying to think back over the last couple of weeks. Nothing stands out—nothing that should be causing this. “I don’t know. It’s been... a blur.” I rack my brain for anything that might have triggered this. “Well, there was that one day he was really quiet after that meeting with the supplier... and then there was the weird phone call he got one night, but he wouldn’t tell me who it was. And, I guess, his brother’s been on him about helping out more at the shop... but none of it feels big enough to make him act like this.”
The memory of my quick internet search earlier buzzes in my brain. ADHD in adults can cause mood swings, impulse control issues, and difficulty managing emotions. But with Harrison, it’s more than that. You don’t go through what he has and come out unscathed. Trauma leaves its mark. I can’t forget the way he thrashes in his sleep, battling demons only he can see.
I read about strategies to help—ways to support someone dealing with both ADHD and trauma. But knowing what to do and knowing where to start are two different things.
And right now? I feel like I’m fumbling in the dark.
Before I can spiral further, a voice cuts through my thoughts. Molly, Isla’s young colleague, appears in her scrubs, looking frazzled. “Sorry to interrupt. I need your help with Hugo. His heart rate is elevated, and his temperature’s spiking.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a second.” Isla flashes me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Midge.”
I wave her off. “Don’t be. All good. I should head back to work, too.”
“Call me if you need anything, okay? Just keep talking to him. You’re the only one close to him right now. Keep us in the loop?”
“I’ll do my best.”
It’s around three in the afternoon and I’m finishing up a blowout for my last client, smoothing out those last few strands, when the door chimes. A mother and her daughter step inside, the little girl’s blonde curls bouncing as she chatters away. The mother’s smile is soft as she talks to Madeleine at the counter.
Out of nowhere, the mother calls, “Deborah, come here, sweetie!” The name hits me like a gut punch. Deborah. My mother’s name. Suddenly, I’m sitting at that old kitchen table, small and silent, while Mum and Dad tear each other apart.
“Quit sooking, Steven. You’re acting like I’ve spent thousands of dollars!” Mum yells, her voice piercing my ears.
Dad’s face twists. “Thousands or not, Deborah, it’s money we don’t have! You keep spending on pointless things—expensive clothes, hair, nails—while Imogen needs a bloody new school bag, actual school supplies. Essentials.”
Mum crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Oh, so now I’m not allowed to look after myself? I can’t even have nice things?” She laughs, but it sounds mean. “Maybe if you worked harder, you wouldn’t have to complain all the time!”
“I’m working as hard as I can, Deborah! Money doesn’t just fall into our laps!” Dad looks at me like he forgot I was there. “Maybe if you got a job, I wouldn’t have to worry about every bill!”
I shrink in my chair, wishing I could disappear. Every time Dad yells, it hurts. This happens every time Mum has a few drinks. Mum makes a funny sound and puts her glass down hard. “Work? How am I supposed to work when I’m stuck looking after her?” She nods at me without even looking. “If you made more money, we wouldn’t be having this. You don’t care about me—never have. All you wanted was a kid to tie me down.”
I try to make myself smaller, but it’s like her words are crushing me. I know I’m the reason they fight, the reason she’s unhappy. It makes my chest hurt, and I just want to vanish.
Dad looks sad. “You’re not the only one who sacrificed, Deborah. You wanted this life, too.”
Mum laughs. “A life like this? You think I should be grateful?”
“Grateful? I’ve worked myself to death trying to give you a decent life.”
Mum scrunches up her nose, her eyes mean. “I deserve better than this.” I don’t like when Mum is mean to Dad. It makes him upset, and that makes me upset, too. I don’t understand why she’s like this. Why does she always say things that hurt him? It feels like everything’s getting worse when she gets like this, and I just want it to stop. Why can’t she just be nice? Why does she make Dad sad?
There’s a pause, then Dad snaps. “Fine. You don’t want to be here? The door’s right there.”
Mum doesn’t even look at him. She just swirls her glass and keeps drinking. Their voices get louder, angrier, until everything’s just noise, and I feel trapped.
Dad turns to me with a soft smile. “Imogen, love, why don’t you go upstairs and finish your homework?” I nod, getting up. I look at Mum, but she doesn’t look at me. My throat feels like it’s closing tight, but I go upstairs, anyway, their arguing still echoing behind me.
Hours later, Dad comes in, sitting on my bed. He smooths my hair and looks at me, but his eyes don’t match his words. “Your mum just had a bad day, sweetheart. Things will be better tomorrow.”
“Are you okay?” A voice snaps me out of my daze. I blink, realising I’ve been staring off into space. Amanda’s looking back at me, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
I nod quickly, embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry. Just… zoned out.” I force a smile and grab another curling iron, trying to distract myself. Suddenly, a sharp pain flares in my lower abdomen, like a deep, twisting cramp. I double over, gasping.
“Imogen, are you alright?” A woman rushes over, her eyes wide with concern.
I can’t be alright—not with that pain flaring up again, sharper this time. My breath catches, my heart thunders. This isn’t happening. Not now. Panic claws at my chest, but I force myself to breathe through it, bracing against the counter.
“How far along are you?” she asks, voice gentle.
“Twenty-four weeks,” I manage, voice shaky.
She nods, her expression easing. “Could just be Braxton Hicks.”
I try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. I’ve heard of Braxton Hicks, but never really looked into it. She must see the confusion on my face, because she pats my shoulder with a grin. “Practice contractions. Nothing to worry about. Your body’s just getting ready.”
Right. A rehearsal for the main event. I take a few more breaths, the ache finally dulling to a throb.
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, shaking my head.
She chuckles. “The joys of being a woman, huh?”
“Mhm,” I reply, pushing through the lingering panic as I straighten up.
Maddie catches my eye, offering a sympathetic smile. “Midge, if you need to go, I can handle the last two clients. No worries.”
“Nah, I’m good. Just a bit of excitement. Nothing I can’t handle.” I rub my belly, the warmth spreading, and pull off my shirt. The cool cotton of my dress offers some relief, but even with it being mid-June, the heat flares up beneath my skin. That’s when I spot her—Shelly Bryant, in all her nosy glory, staring like she’s just seen Bigfoot. Her eyes are saucer-wide, glued to my belly, mouth half-open like she’s waiting for flies. Brilliant . I finish the last section of my client’s hair, watching as Shelly sidles up to Maddie, whispering like a kid with a juicy secret. Subtle as a neon sign. My jaw sets as I take my time fluffing the curls, throwing a pointed glare her way. She doesn’t even flinch. By the time I ring up my client, Shelly’s still at it, gawking without a shred of shame.
Enough.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s rude to stare?” I call out, my voice cutting through the salon as every head turns to me, half-amused, half-shocked. Let them be.
Shelly gasps, clutching her pearls like I just slapped her. “I beg your pardon? My, my, didn’t yours ever teach you some manners?”
I don’t bother hiding my smirk. “Fortunately, Shelly, no ,” I say, feigning pity. “She left my father and me seventeen years ago, so my manners might be a bit out of practice.” A few of the women snort, barely holding back their laughs. Shelly’s face flames red, but I don’t give her the chance to sputter.
Grabbing my shirt and bag, I add with a grin, “Now, if you don’t mind—not that you know how to—I’m off to rest because this kid’s kicking my ass.” I sling my tote over my shoulder, letting my words land like a bomb. Let her choke on that one.
“See ya, Maddie,” I call, waving.
“Bye!” Maddie grins, enjoying the show.
As I walk past Shelly, her jaw finally snaps shut. Let her waddle off to her gossip crew. Good luck keeping up, Shelly. Life in Wattle Creek isn’t for the weak.
The couch sinks under my weight as I drop down next to Dad, the sound of Seinfeld reruns filling the room. Kramer’s wild entrance earns a laugh from him, low and familiar. A beer dangles from his fingers, and I cradle a frosty glass of peach iced tea. It’s perfect—just the right amount of sweet and peachy, like always. “You’ve still got it,” I say, taking a sip and smirking over at him.
“Damn right I do,” he replies, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
For a moment, it’s like nothing’s changed. Just the two of us, back in the day. But the memory tugs at something in my chest, and before I know it, I’m saying, “Dad, did you ever... I mean, after Mum left, did you ever see her again? Keep in touch?”
His smile falters, just for a moment, before he shakes his head. “Nope. Not once. Tried calling her a few times after she left, even sent some texts, but she was long gone. Didn’t want to be found.”
I glance down at my glass, watching the peach iced tea swirl in lazy circles. “So, that’s it? She just vanished? She never called? Sent a text?”
“Not a word.”
My stomach twists, a knot that’s been sitting there for years, and it’s not going anywhere. He exhales sharply through his nose, a sound that says everything. “Pumpkin, don’t ever feel bad for her actions. She made the choice to walk out on us. She left us. That’s on her, not us. We’re better than that.”
Better than her? Damn straight we are. I’ll never understand how she could treat him the way she did. My dad—my rock, my whole damn world—did nothing but love her, and she threw it all away like yesterday’s trash.
What kind of cold, heartless bitch does that? She didn’t just leave him; she left me. Her own child. Nah, screw her. She doesn’t deserve the space she still rents in my head.
“What’s brought this on?” he asks, side-eyeing me like he’s already got half the story.
I snort. “Something at work reminded me of her. That’s it. Nothing worth unpacking.”
He nods, slow and deliberate. “Well, don’t let it fester. Life’s too short to waste on people who’ve already checked out.”
We sit there, Seinfeld’s laugh track filling the silence, until he turns to me, tilting his beer. “How are you doing, though? And the little one?”
I rub my belly absentmindedly, shrugging. “We’re good. Mostly. Just taking it one day at a time.”
His brow furrows. “You know I just want what’s best for you, right? This whole thing with Harrison… I hope it works out. For both of you.”
I want to say something, but the words are trapped, tangled up with feelings I won’t name. What am I supposed to do with them? Lay it all out? Tell him about Harrison’s past? Not a chance. I sigh instead, mustering a small smile. “You didn’t raise a weak woman. I can handle myself, Dad. Things’ll work out how they’re supposed to.”
“Damn right you can, and they will.” He leans back with a satisfied grunt.
Eventually, I stretch, pushing off the couch. “Alright, I’d better head out.” As I dig through my bag for my keys, his voice cuts through the quiet.
“Still rocking the ribbons, huh?”
“Well, I only learned from the best.”
“Yeah, when I couldn’t figure out a braid to save my life,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Lucky for me, ribbons were easier to tie.”
“They’re our thing now,” I say simply, tugging one lightly. He smiles, resting a hand on my shoulder for a brief second before stepping back.
“Drive safe, darlin’.”
“I will.” I give him a small wave, sliding into my car. As I pull away, his silhouette lingers in the rearview mirror, standing there like he always does, watching until I’m out of sight.