Whispers of Us (Cold Neptune #3)

Chapter 1

Cassie

T wo lines. That means positive, right?

I check the instructions again on the back of the box, silently praying that two lines mean something else entirely. Like, I don’t know…a free gift or something.

My eyes shift nervously back and forth between the crinkled sheet of paper on the sink and the pee-covered stick I’m holding in my hand.

My prayers go unanswered. And there’s no damn gift.

I’m pregnant.

Shit.

The test slips through my fingers, turning in excruciatingly slow circles until it clinks against the rusty floor drain. The sound ricochets off the tiled walls, bouncing back at me twice as loud in the small space.

How cliché, taking a pregnancy test in a college restroom between classes.

Yep, apparently I’m that girl. Awesome.

A warm summer breeze blows through the open bathroom window, but it’s not enough to dry the salty tears welling in my eyes. Outside, the New York streets pulse with life. Men and women in business suits are heading back to the office after their lunch breaks. Shoppers and tourists alike line both sides of the sidewalks, while the endless blue of a mid-July sky lies beyond.

Life goes on as normal for these people, and yay for them, because my life is currently falling apart all around me.

I take a deep breath, trying to pull myself together. What am I going to do? Me, a mother? Oh, god. No. I can’t be someone’s mother. I can barely take care of myself right now, let alone be responsible for another human being.

“I’m so sorry, Jeremy,” I whisper.

What would he think of me?

Jeremy. My fiancé.

His name brings even more tears to my eyes.

I dig through my backpack until I find the cream-colored envelope that’s buried at the very bottom. Needing to hold it. Needing it in my hands. It weighs so heavily on my heart and in my mind, and yet the paper itself weighs nothing at all, as if it’s weightless and worthless. But nothing could be further from the truth, because this envelope is my most cherished possession.

With trembling fingers, I open the typed, one-page letter that’s contained within, careful not to tear it because it’s all I have left.

Exhaling softly, I let my eyes scroll down over the words I’ve read a thousand times. “Hey, Doll,” that’s how it begins, and a sob rips from deep inside my chest. It hits me so unexpectedly that I have to fight to keep from falling to the floor. My breath catches sharply, and my eyes burn.

Doll.

Jeremy gave me the nickname the night we first met at the Ascot Ridge County Fair, in my home state of Alabama. Jeremy was on leave from a nearby military base, and I was there with a group of friends celebrating the end of our freshman year at college. He smiled at me, and I was instantly mesmerized by his gorgeous green eyes. He let me cut in line on the Ferris wheel, and we ended up sharing a gondola. Exactly twenty-three minutes later, we climbed off that same Ferris wheel, giddy and laughing, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I’d just met the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

Jeremy told me that night that I reminded him of a Kewpie-Doll because of my deep-auburn hair, and my big blue eyes, hence the nickname. He bought me popcorn, and a candy apple, and then he kissed me senseless behind the lemonade stand with only the night sky and the overhead fireworks playing chaperone .

A tear rolls down my face, and I quickly swipe it away before it drops onto the worn, creased paper below.

Folding the letter back in half again, I slip it into the envelope, and then place the envelope back into the bottom of my backpack.

“You promised me it would be your last tour,” I whisper hoarsely, pressing my fist hard into the middle of my chest. It hurts. It hurts so much. Still, even after all this time, almost three years to the day. “You promised me that you’d come back to me. You promised me that I’d always be yours, and that you’d always be mine.”

Anger and pain fight inside me, trying to win a battle that can never be won. A war. More tears fall, but this time I don’t bother wiping them away, I just let them fall, hot, salty tears sliding down my cheeks.

Jeremy promised me forever.

But I didn’t get forever.

And Jeremy didn’t get forever, either.

Jeremy was killed with three other intelligence officers in a small town just outside of Baghdad. A roadside bomb had been detonated when their Humvee drove over it. It exploded, killing them all instantly. Jeremy’s father got the phone call no parent should ever have to take later that evening.

The following morning, two officers in full uniform pulled up outside Jeremy’s parent’s home in a black Ford Taurus with the letter he never got the chance to post, his black leather wallet, and the rest of his belongings in a brown paper bag.

‘They wouldn’t have felt a thing,’ is what they told us. ‘The force of the explosion would have knocked them out cold.’ That’s what they said. ‘It all happened so fast, there wouldn’t have been time to be afraid.’

The words those men spoke that morning were words meant to ease unimaginable grief. But words are just that, words. They can’t replace, and they can’t console, so I’ve spent countless nights lying awake while imagining the worst possible scenarios.

Sinking to the cold, hard floor, I pull my knees up to my chest, my skin covered in goose bumps.

Oh god. I’m pregnant.

This definitely wasn’t part of the plan .

The plan was to complete my bachelor’s degree in marketing. A degree I postponed for eighteen months after Jeremy died. Then I’d finish top of my class, before landing myself a high-paying job at a cutthroat marketing firm. One of the big four, preferably. Chroma Creative is the ultimate dream. It’s all there on my vision board, so, it must be true. Of course, after that, I was going to marry Jeremy, and one day…way, way, way down the track…maybe we’d have a baby together. But this baby is not Jeremy’s baby.

Of course, it’s not Jeremy’s baby.

Jeremy’s dead.

Holy shit. How did this even happen?

Yeah, yeah, alright, so I know how it happened. At any rate, my entire life has just been altered in a matter of seconds, my future decimated by two little pink lines, and things are changing so fast I can barely keep up.

I’m not ready for this. We are not ready for this. And of course, when I say we , I’m referring to myself, and my still none-the-wiser baby daddy.

There’s a knock on the restroom door. “Cassie?”

Becca, a girl from my consumer behavior class who I’ve become friendly with over the last year, pushes the door open slowly. She pokes her head around the corner, her eyes widening slightly when she finds me sitting on the grubby floor.

“Are you alright?” she asks cautiously. “You’ve been in here for ages. Your lunch is getting cold.”

“I’m fine, I was just—”

But then I stop talking altogether because I notice Becca’s eyes settle tightly on the pregnancy test, and now she’s making a weird face that makes no sense given the circumstances.

“Oh, no, you have COVID,” she whines, pouting in some overly dramatic fashion. “That sucks. I’m so sorry,”

Wait. What?

Her blonde hair falls in long waves around her shoulders when she tilts her head to the side.

“COVID is the worst. If you have symptoms, you should probably go home. I had COVID last year over spring break…” she continues rabbiting on, oblivious to the way I’m currently mind-boggled by her inane ramblings and the fact that she’s so far off track that Google maps is having a hard time keeping up with her. “I was in bed for three whole days. It totally knocked me out. I couldn’t eat a thing, and don’t even get me started on the phlegm. Good Lord, the phlegm—”

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

Not the smoothest of segues, I’ll grant you that, but as it turns out my gag reflex isn’t quite what it used to be, at least not since a fetus took up residency in my uterus, and the unexpected mention of grotesque bodily fluids sends a hot wave of nausea rolling through me.

Not surprising, really. I’ve been feeling like this for weeks now. I guess I chose to ignore all the signs. Because my period being MIA for eight weeks apparently that wasn’t enough of a clue.

The truth of the matter is, I’ve been in serious denial about my symptoms because, let’s face it, my class load is relentless, I have a final paper to write, and I work my ass off at two different jobs. I just figured that’s why I’ve been so tired lately and dizzy and queasy and emotional…apparently the list goes on, and on.

Cue the violins.

“Who’s the father?” Becca gives me a quick smile, but it’s awkward as hell. No surprises there. Because doesn’t every girl dream about being asked that very question when announcing her pregnancy. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”

Of course you didn’t, Becca. No one did. That’s the problem, isn’t it? It has been the problem from day one. My fingers knot tightly in my T-shirt. His T-shirt. An unwelcome warmth fills my chest at the memory of him slipping the soft cotton over my head. There was a soulfulness in his eyes as his fingers lingered on my skin, tracing my hips with longing and desire.

A flicker of a frown crosses Becca’s face. “Are you okay?”

“I will be, I guess…I don’t know.” My voice sounds hollow somehow, like I’m standing at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I stumble back to my feet again, gripping the edge of the sink to steady myself. “You’re right. I should get back to my lunch.”

Becca locks the bathroom door behind her. “No, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Trust me, the lasagne tastes like shit anyway, and the fries are soggy. You’re not missing anything.” She pats my rigid shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Our next class doesn’t start for an hour. We’re friends, Cassie. Talk to me.”

With a heavy sigh, I hang my head in my hands. Another upsurge of nausea suddenly hits me. Probably indigestion. That would be my best guess. And guess it is, because what the hell do I know about any of this.

“I…I don’t even know where to start,” I tell her.

“Start at the very beginning.”

I take a deep breath. And then another.

Okay. I can do this. I can tell Becca the story. The whole story. No big deal, right? I don’t know why I’m delaying the inevitable because I’m sure I’m not the first person to get knocked up by a famous rock star.

I take another deep breath, and because there’s really no easy way to say it, I just come straight out with it. “So, you’ve heard of the band Cold Neptune, right?”