4. Ellie
Chapter four
Ellie
“Can you come over? I’ve made a mistake.” I’m so hot. I pull off the polka-dot cardigan I’d been trying on over my new sweater dress and drop it to the floor.
“The tone of your voice is scaring me. Like you’re trying to get me to help you hide a body, and, honestly, I have mixed feelings about that.” Cleo, my bestie since middle school, is always the one I call when I get worked up—which, I’ll admit, has been a more frequent occurrence lately.
I’ll blame the pregnancy for everything I can.
After the baby arrives, I’ll probably pass the blame to sleep deprivation.
“Someone told me that babies will pull long hair, and I don’t want my hair to be pulled.
” Whether by babies or by grown men with something to prove.
“So I went and got a haircut on my lunch break and it’s not okay.
I should have waited to do it here so Maria could do it!
It’s ugly. And short. I ... It’s … I just need you to come.
Maybe you can help me fix it?” I sigh because I know my hair might be beyond help.
And I thought I was being so proactive. Well, actually, I guess it was proactive. But was it necessary?
“I’m not a hairdresser,” Cleo says practically.
“Cleo, please. I know Cameron is with Ansel tonight.” Cameron is Cleo’s eight-year-old brother whom she is raising.
Ansel, Cleo’s new husband, takes him to do “man things” every Tuesday night.
I assume that means they scratch themselves and break stuff, but who knows?
What I do know is it gives Cleo a much-needed break.
“Alright, I’ll come by, but I make no promises about the hair.”
“Deal.”
Not twenty minutes later, I’ve had a snack—because I canceled my dinner plans with the Dawsons because of my hair panic—and Cleo and I are standing in front of the bathroom mirror, waiting for my curling rod to heat up.
She’d told me it was likely not the cut I hated, but the way the woman had styled it.
Cleo is not one to tell people things that aren’t true to make them feel better.
I still wince a little when I remember junior prom when she told me the color of my dress looked like vomit.
Thankfully, she’s more tactful and cognizant about timing as an adult. Still, I absolutely believe her.
“How was work today?” she asks, knowing full well I was bored all day, because I’m bored every day.
There is certainly nothing wrong with being a receptionist, but it doesn’t match well with my personality.
Unfortunately, after Dylan, I needed a job that would bring in steady money and have insurance.
I didn’t want any connection with him going forward, including alimony.
Especially after he told the whole town I got pregnant just to leech off of him.
So here I am, schlepping at least thirty minutes each way to a job that makes me question all my life choices.
“Dr. Holland brought in doughnuts for Amelia’s birthday, so that was four minutes of fun.”
Cleo shakes her head sadly. “I saw your pile of sewing boxes still stacked in the dining room.” She picks up a comb and runs it through my hair.
“Please tell me you aren’t still listening to replays of Dylan’s stupid voice.
You were building a solid business, and maybe you weren’t bringing in a ton of money, but you were getting there.
He forgot you have a business degree. You weren’t just stitching stuff together and hoping for the best.” The bitterness in Cleo’s voice comes through loud and clear.
And I appreciate that my best friend hurts for me as much—if not more—than I do for myself. She’s certainly more vocal about it.
Dylan and I got together when I was in business school and he was the TA for one of my classes, so he knows good and well that I have a degree.
He just always chose to ignore it because I wasn’t using it in a way that he approved of.
I wish I knew how many times he told me to quit sewing—that we didn’t need the money because he made plenty.
I had a thriving handmade children’s clothing store on Etsy.
I sold at markets when I could, and I even had some stuff at my mom’s boutique, Moon & Magnolia.
Granted, I had to strip down my designs for them to fit with the sleek style of her shop, but still they sold there, and it was something I got to do with my mom.
What he didn’t know—what I haven’t told anyone—is that I was working to sell some of my designs to popular children’s retailers.
I did well with what I already had going on, but I wanted something more than what was possible with only me and a sewing machine.
Now, though, every time I look at my stuff, I see the time I tried to leave Dylan.
He’d swiped everything—all my carefully laid-out patterns, design drawings, supplies, fabric samples, and my sewing machine—onto the floor.
My machine needs to be repaired, but I don’t know when I will be able to look at any of it without feeling hollow.
He wanted to kill my creativity, and he did. Yet, somehow, he managed to convince me to come back.
“I can’t—”
“Ellie.” She puts the comb down and takes my hands, turning me to face her. “You give too much power to that trash-man. He’s not worth the space you let him keep in your head.”
“I know.” But the tremor in my voice says otherwise.
Cleo’s knowing look brings tears to my eyes. “Do you?”
“Yes.” I say it as confidently as I can. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” I turn back to the mirror.
“Okay.” She picks up the curling rod and quickly fixes my hair while I fight tears.
When she finishes, I take a deep breath and smile. As it turns out, she was right about my hair. I wanted a cute A-line bob, and that’s exactly what I got.
I turn and hug Cleo. She grips me back fiercely.
“Thank you,” I whisper, sighing as I feel my body loosen.
She leans back, looking into my eyes. “I know I’m busy and my life is weird, but I am always here for you. Okay? I’ll do anything for you, anytime.”
“I know.” I give her a watery smile.
“I have to go get groceries before I head home.”
“Don’t lie to me. You’re just in a hurry to kiss Ansel.”
“That too.”
I smile. “Okay. Get out of here, you lady in love, you.”
Cleo grins, then we walk to the front door, and she hugs me again. “Bye, Ellie. See ya later, Sweetpea.” She pats my belly, and I smile, feeling light and happy for the first time today.
A dark cloud settles over my head again as soon as the door shuts behind her. I don’t love being alone. I wasn’t always this way, but now I feel uneasy. I never know what Dylan’s gonna do and if I let myself dwell on it, I can easily get on edge.
I push back against the gloom and uneasiness. I’m not doing that tonight.
I turn and catch sight of myself in the large entryway mirror and smile.
The haircut was a good choice. And I love my new maternity clothes.
I got several outfits, but this one is my favorite.
It’s a fitted burnt-orange sweater dress, which makes me feel like I should make black eyes and a mouth to attach to my belly to be a jack-o'-lantern for Halloween. Also, it makes my boobs look amazing. Or maybe it’s just the pregnancy.
I hear my phone ping from the bedroom and go to see what GIF Cleo has sent.
She’s gotten in the habit of sending me funny GIFs when she leaves.
I think she feels bad about not being around that much, but I’ve told her not to.
She has the responsibility of a child now, on top of her job.
She can’t always be tending to me and my wildly fluctuating emotions.
I reach for my phone only to find the message isn’t lighthearted fun from my bestie. It’s from Dylan.
Dylan: I want to feel my baby kick tonight.
I drop my phone back onto my parents’ creamy white duvet. My heart pounds so hard, I swear I can feel it in my toes.
Has he been drinking? He always said crazy things when he had too much to drink.
I block his number. I don’t know why I haven’t before. Though I haven’t heard from him since he was served with the restraining order.
He’d filed for divorce, but the moment I started rebuilding my life without him, he changed his mind. Apparently, I wasn’t allowed to move on unless he said I could. The bruises he left that night were the reason a judge signed the restraining order.
Still, one question won’t leave me alone—what good is a court order against a man who does whatever he wants?
My hand shakes as I pick up my dad’s old baseball bat I’ve kept next to the bed. I glance back at the text.
I want to feel my baby kick tonight.
It doesn’t make any sense.
When I told Dylan I was pregnant, he accused me of trying to trap him. He said the baby probably wasn’t even his. Within weeks, he’d filed for divorce, insisting he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life paying for my mistakes.
He made it painfully clear he never wanted this baby.
So why now?
I found that not understanding Dylan only made me fear him more.
I tiptoe around the house, checking all the locks. I’m stepping back into the bedroom when I hear a car pull up in the driveway. My stomach drops to my feet, and I clench the baseball bat with both hands.