Chapter 19
Devyn Eleven Years Ago
T ugging at the hem of my already-too-small sweater, I use my free hand to reach for the big party bowl above the fridge. I know I’m not supposed to reach above my head. The paper even said it could make something mess up with the umbilical cord, but I can’t very well tell Mom that.
Because then the cat would be clear out of the bag. Hunter and I would have to come clean sooner than we planned. And that’s not happening. Nope, not at all.
He’s going to take me to prom, finish up his senior year, get a job on a farm, and then we’re going to buy that stupidly perfect little run-down farmhouse out by Piper’s Creek and fix it up.
For the three of us.
I twirl around carefully, sufficiently satisfied that the baby is fine from my overhead grabbing since I don’t feel anything funky, and hand the bowl to Dustin. He’s opening a giant bag of chips and setting them out next to a bowl of dip, a tray of chopped veggies, and about eighteen packs of hamburger buns.
Tonight is the graduation party for the Pine Forrest Rodeo team and their families. Technically, graduation isn’t for three more weeks, but with next week being exams and then prom after that, there really isn’t another weekend to make it happen, and this year the party is at our house. I’m still not sure why. I hate how many people are about to be here, when I’m feeling less than stellar today. I groan when I smell the chips Dustin shovels into his mouth in handfuls.
“Ew, those are so gross. How can you even eat them?”
Dustin glares at me suspiciously.
“I thought you liked salt and vinegar. One time you even kicked me in the shin when I ate them all.”
Shit. I’m so queasy today I’m not thinking straight. But I can’t slip up. Dustin cannot know about this yet. He would kill us both.
I run my hand through my hair, casually shrugging like I’m bored with the conversation already. “Whatever. Why are we even having this dumb party at our house, anyway? Robbie’s mansion is way more suited for this.”
Dustin’s face pinches in a sour look. “You know Mom loves any excuse to parade her children around like trained monkeys with no purpose other than to show the world what beautiful and superior spawn she created.”
He rolls his eyes, making a joke of it. But we both know it’s true. It’s what she’s done to me with pageants my whole life.
I often wonder if it isn’t to distract people long enough that they won’t notice the stench of alcohol lacing her words. Won’t notice her glaring failures beneath the glow of our successes.
It has always made me sick. But I think the sickness I’m feeling right now might actually be related to the fact that I’m seven months pregnant and not from how toxic a single dose of my mother’s presence may be.
Dustin shuffles through the hallway with a plate of raw hamburger meat, and my stomach rolls. I shove away from the kitchen counter and race through the hallway to the small half-bath by the mudroom, stabbing my finger at the lock button on the handle and throwing my body into the direction of the toilet just in time to vomit up the entirety of my breakfast.
Whew.
I breathe slowly for a little bit, trying to get my dizziness under control, but it’s so hard when I get like this. I drink plenty of water, and I eat healthily, so I should be fine.
But…I can’t tell Mom I’m growing a child inside me. Not until Hunter graduates and gets that house. I know what will happen if not. I’ll get shipped off somewhere as soon as Mom calls Dad. They’ll separate us…force me to adopt our child out to some family, convince me I’m too young, that we’re too young.
But we aren’t. We are old enough to raise this baby that we’ve already decided on our own to love. And I don’t care what anyone but me and Hunter have to say on the matter.
I’ve never felt as young as my age, anyhow. And who wants to be old and wrinkly when your baby is young and requires energy? I’ve thought through everything, and I really don’t care about any of the alternatives. I want my baby.
We want our baby.
And if Hunter is holding down a steady job and has an offer on that house…we’ve already saved up a quarter of the downpayment as it is by sneaking our money away into a savings account that we convinced old Abe at the feed store into setting up for us. You had to be eighteen, and we couldn’t tell either of our parents. Since Hunter turns eighteen in a few weeks, and he’s the only one who knows the truth, he said he’d keep our secret. He set up the account for us months ago.
I don’t exactly know why. Maybe he understands what it’s like to be young and have the whole world tell you how your life will be before you’re allowed to figure it out for yourself. Whatever his reason, I’m grateful to him. Mom’s a lost cause. But if Dad sees we’ve already stepped up without them and figured it out, I think it will all be okay.
That’s why I can’t let anyone know. And Mom is already awful about counting my calories and doing weigh-ins as it is. I’ve been sneaking as many extra portions of veggies and meat as I can, but it’s hard when she gives me the eyebrow of question with each extra spoonful on my plate.
‘Every extra scoop is another inch of fabric I must pay for. Don’t want to lose to Lemon Perkins on a matter of waistlines, now, do you?’ I can practically hear her say it. She’s said it so many times before. But I’m feeding two now, and I really couldn’t care less about Lemon Perkins or the damn Rodeo crown when I think about my baby growing inside me.
So I sneak as many as I possibly can. I’ve managed to gain only three pounds while my baby measures six, miraculously, and the doctor Abel found us at the free clinic in Centerville, just across the tracks, thinks the baby is doing just fine growth-wise. She said at my age, it’s normal not to gain much weight at all and just look like you swallowed a basketball. Weird way of putting it, but as I stare down at my baggy Hunter-Hoodie, I’m beginning to wonder if my basketball is big enough.
It hardly looks like a bump at all. It’s small enough that my family hasn’t even noticed it yet. The doctor said I need to make sure I’m eating enough to power myself and the baby’s growing body, but I’m not always sure I am when I get dizzy and sick like this.
I read most morning sickness stops after the second trimester. It feels like mine never will.
But every pregnant woman gets sick. It’s times like these when I wish my mother was normal. That I had someone I could share these insecurities with.
But she’s not.
And I don’t.
So, I shake it off and wipe my face on my sleeve. Steadying myself, I look into the mirror and smile back at the girl in front of me. She’s puffy and tired looking, and far younger than she should be while growing a living being inside her, but she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. Because for once in her life, there’s purpose aside from fancy dresses or smiles for the crowd.
There’s a whole life ready to be molded and set free upon the world. A heart to shape and hold that comes from both me and the boy I’ve loved since before I knew the meaning of the word. We might have made her by accident, but nothing has ever felt more purposeful.
Life has never been more perfect.