Something To Talk About (Bluestone City #1)

PROLOGUE

Faint Pink Lines

Fallon

I am only seventeen. My eighteenth birthday is still weeks away.

This is not happening. Denial runs coldly through my veins.

Cheap eyeliner bleeds at the edges of my eyes as I squeeze them shut.

The cosmetics sting as coal mingles with my tears.

I refuse to open them, the consequences of our actions glaring at me.

If I keep them closed long enough, the truth shaking in my hands will slip away.

I am. Becoming. My. Mother. No, no, no…

Tap, tap, tap — the thin plastic panel between the bathroom and hallway trembles under Cyrus’s impatient knocks.

My chest tightens with every strike; blood pumps through my shaking body, hot and fast. The swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of panic echoes in my ears.

Louder than any deafening arena. No, no, no.

There is a faint pink plus sign that deepens in color the longer I stare, a cruel joke from the universe that taunts me, reminding me I will always be at its mercy. The positive pregnancy test halts every plan I made for the future—that we made for our future.

“Fal, are you okay?” Cyrus’s question is so innocent.

Am I okay? No, I am not okay. This is not okay.

I have to admit to my boyfriend that the birth control was effective for 99% of the rest of the world’s population; this pink plus sign is a brutal reality check that we are clearly in the 1%.

Not exactly the 1% we had planned to join.

We will be stuck here in this godforsaken town.

For the rest of our lives. Gasping for air, I force the bile back down my throat.

No, nothing is okay.

Hysteria rattles my bones. Dizziness crashes over me, sharp and relentless, twisting the world sideways.

My limbs feel distant, disconnected, as if they belong to someone else.

Someone whose life has already been rewritten.

My chest constricts, my lungs clutch at air I fail to hold onto, and sweat prickles down my spine.

I can’t breathe. The ground tilts beneath me, the ceiling warps, every nerve in my body screaming.

Fire ignites in my stomach, my hands, my veins, as if I’ve been set alight from the inside out. My teeth chatter. My vision tunnels.

I am not okay. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We used birth control and condoms. What the fuck?

Twin streams smear my eyeliner. A mixture of charcoal and tears mark my cheeks, icy against the heat of my skin, my pulse thrums, the beat echoing in my eardrums.

The small, life-altering plastic stick has changed the course of my life in a matter of moments, halting every plan I have cultivated for the future with Cyrus over the last two years.

I am not okay.

Weeks of nausea, headaches, and chronic fatigue, now makes sense. I naively thought the stress from prepping for the SATs was the culprit. Bile fills the back of my throat, constricting as the small stick tumbles from my trembling hands, propelling me into action.

My tattered converse sneakers squeak as I lunge from the toilet seat to catch the future slipping through my grasp. Clammy fingers snatch the pregnancy test out of the air seconds before the stick hits the chipped linoleum floor of the bathroom in my run-down trailer I share with my mom.

Shit, my mother.

My meager existence with a mom who, more days than not, is absent at best. Abusive disguised as loving is the worst. I sniffle, using the bottom of my tattered Rolling Stones shirt to dry my face.

The stale air is repulsive against my raw and aching throat, the result of hours spent crying in this dingy bathroom.

Tap, tap, tap. The knocking is softer now, making me sniffle harder.

“Fallon, baby, you are worrying me. Is this about those cheerleaders? I promise I had nothing to do with my name being on the Prom King ballot. That was all Jordan and her friends. We don’t have to go; they can give the crown to the runner-up.

Jonah would love to be Prom King. You know he thrives with the attention.

And how funny would that be? Jordan having to dance with her twin brother instead of me, in front of everyone. She would be mortified.”

I hiccup; eyelashes fluttering as I close my eyes, trying to capture air before I pass out.

Breathe deep: one, two, three, and exhale.

Name three colors: the yellowing of the walls from Mom’s nicotine addiction that used to be white, I think.

The rust around the tub drain is brown…and the plus sign on the stick I’m holding is… pink.

“Come on, Fallon. The amount of adrenaline pumping through my body can’t be healthy.

I’m going to croak out here. You would feel terrible if I died.

” Cyrus’s rambling filters through to me around the pathetic piece of plastic that divides us.

It’s something he does when he worries. The irony of this moment isn’t lost on me; he’s thinking it’s something or someone who’s trivial.

Jordan entered my boyfriend’s name on the Prom Court ballot after he refused to enter himself. She knew I, a poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks, would never be nominated in a town that silences anything outside of the cookie-cutter norm.

We’re in high school; he is thinking about prom, and I’m tapping a positive pregnancy stick against my thigh. Tap, tap, tap…

“It’s not…” I croak, clearing my throat for a second time, turning the faucet on, swallowing down the well water to clear my damaged vocal cords.

I taste the smell of eggs, another striking difference in our shared reality.

The water on his side of town runs clear; no sulfur contamination for them.

“Everything is fine. I will be out in a moment.” Name three things: burn holes that litter the bathroom rug outside the tub.

“You’re okay?” There’s relief in his voice, and possibly some confusion.

I’m unable to gauge his emotions without meeting him in the eyes.

That’s Cyrus, though. Hard to read, harder to lie to.

My eyes latch onto a pair of knuckle imprints, dotting the thin drywall from one of Mom’s frequent fliers. Breathe in…and out…

“Can I come in?” His muted words send me into a spiral.

All the grounding I did goes out the proverbial window.

Frantically, I look around, searching for a safe place to hide the pregnancy test, the box, and the long sheet of instructions.

My eyes roll skyward to the water-damaged ceiling.

The instructions page should have never been that long.

Open box.

Pull off the top cover.

Pee on the tissued end.

Snap plastic piece back on.

Sit and panic.

Huh.

“I need a minute!” My voice is shrill even to my own ears.

Can he hear how unhinged I sound? I hope not.

A million racing thoughts pull me in every direction at once, the onslaught of spiraling in slow motion.

A storm I can’t outrun. I need a new plan because pregnancies last nine months, and I won’t show for a few more months.

Prom is next week. We graduate a month after that.

Can I wait until we leave for college to tell Cyrus?

Waiting, I am definitely waiting to tell anyone, including Cyrus.

This is the last thing I need anyone in this town to know, especially Jordan.

After she and Cyrus broke up, we started dating.

The way she behaved was world-ending. Absolutely apocalyptic.

That girl has had it out for me ever since.

Is it considered stalking if you block someone on all social media platforms, so they have fake accounts and friends that keep ‘tabs’ on you for them? Unhinged to the extreme, for sure.

For months, Cyrus has had to check my social media for hate messages before I scroll or read my DMs. Not that there are many.

Friends are something of an anomaly for me.

I tutor a few of the theater students for extra cash, so communicating with them is important.

These girls, Jordan and her friends, are vicious, with legendary temper tantrums. Cyrus and I have been dating for two years.

One would think she’d be over the theatrics by now.

That’s not the case, regrettably. No, I have to keep this to myself.

They would love me being the center of a teenage pregnancy scandal.

Cyrus offers stability to my otherwise chaotic life.

The chaos involving Jordan, her friends, and my mother.

Back in eleventh grade, Jordan and her group trapped me in the locker room, put gum in my hair, stole my sneakers, made my already miserable life worse.

I ended up having to cut four inches off.

Four very important inches that were used to hide my protruding collarbone from the town.

My life was humiliating enough; there was no need to prove to anyone that their stereotypical thoughts were correct. I was always hungry.

Cyrus’s mom, Lani, generously fixed my hair since my mother couldn’t or wouldn’t. I remember wishing I had a mother like Lani as she brushed away my tears, encouraging me to stay strong, never cry in front of them.

No. I can’t tell anyone right now. I have to keep this to myself for now.

I worry that Lani might be disappointed in me or misinterpret my intentions toward her son.

This is a total accident. One that has me filled to the brim with disappointment in myself.

How do I convey to others that no one could be more disappointed in me than I am?

“Fal?”

The instruction manual sounds like firecrackers going off as I crinkle the paper to stuff inside the box.

Why aren’t the instructions simple and printed on the side of the box?

How many trees could companies save? Focus, Fal.

Hide the evidence. I look around the depleted bathroom.

A cracked mirror leans at an odd angle, the hinges almost completely broken.

It doubles as a pathetic medicine cabinet.

Nope, not safe enough. Come on, Fallon. Think.