Chapter 11
Mitch
I’m halfway through pulling the mowers onto the trailer when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket.
I ignore it at first and finish what I’m doing, shoving the last strap into place, slamming the trailer gate shut hard enough that it rattles. Luke’s already in the truck, engine running, arm hanging out the window like he’s got all day.
I pull my phone out as I walk toward the passenger door.
Callie: I need to see you tonight.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I fire back a smirking emoji, already picturing her in my truck, laughing at something dumb before the space between us disappears and thinking becomes impossible.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Callie: No. It’s serious.
I stop walking. I know two weeks isn’t a long time. But apparently, it’s long enough for everything to change.
We managed to stay quiet and hidden. Late nights sitting in my truck on back roads nobody drives unless they don’t want to be seen.
Phone calls that stretched late into the night, whispered conversations where we talked about everything and nothing all at the same time—faith, fears, how anxious we both were about the future, how fast everything was happening.
Sunday mornings at church, sitting two rows apart like we always had.
Singing the same songs. Bowing our heads at the same prayers.
Pretending we weren’t counting the minutes until we could get outside and breathe again.
Pretending the looks didn’t linger. Pretending my hand didn’t itch to find hers.
In public, we were careful. Around the group, we were normal—laughing, teasing, sitting on opposite sides of picnic tables like nothing had shifted. But alone? Alone was different. Too easy. Too close. Like something we’d been circling for years finally stopped waiting on permission.
I kept telling myself we were just…figuring it out. That it was fine. That we were still in control. But control is funny like that. You don’t realize you’ve lost it until it’s already gone.
And now she’s texting me that she needs to see me. Tonight. And that it’s serious.
Now I just stand here in the gravel, phone in my hand, heat pressing down on my neck.
I reread it, then scroll up through our thread like maybe it’s not what I think, maybe I missed something.
But I didn’t. There’s nothing off. No short replies.
No weird tone. I didn’t fall asleep before saying good night.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like. Serious can mean a lot of things. Too many things. And I know, deep down, life is about to come crashing down on me.
“Yo, let’s go,” Luke shouts from the truck. I lock my phone and slide into the passenger seat, shutting the door harder than necessary. Luke glances over but doesn’t say anything right away, just throws the truck into gear and pulls us back onto the road.
My mind won’t shut up.
We mow two more yards before the next stop. While Luke chats with a customer, I sit in the truck, heart pounding, and finally call her.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I say quickly. “I only have a minute here by myself, but what’s up?”
“Just meet me after work.” Her voice is soft, shaky. It spikes my heart rate instantly.
“Okay. What’s wrong?”
Her sigh crackles through the phone, heavy, full of something I can’t name.
“Callie.”
“I’m not doing this over the phone. Just text me when you’re done with work.”
“You’re scaring me, babe.”
“Yeah? You should try on the shoes I’m wearing right now,” she says, then hangs up.
I stare at the screen, the call lasting less than a minute, and then Luke’s back in the driver’s seat.
“I somehow cut that short,” he says, starting the truck. “Guy usually talks my ear off.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, forcing a laugh.
He drives, talking about dinner plans or something, but I’m not listening. My gut twists tighter every mile, because deep down I already know what’s wrong. I’ve just been pretending not to.
* * *
Later, I’m parked on a back road nobody uses unless they’re looking for privacy. Headlights flash across the trees before her car pulls in behind mine. I get out, lean against the hood, and finish the cigarette I’ve been smoking since I got here, stomping it out as she steps out of her car.
She’s moving slowly, like the air’s too heavy.
Her hoodie’s too big, sleeves swallowing her hands, and her hair’s pulled up in one of those messy knots she does when she doesn’t care.
Even from a distance, I can tell she’s been crying—eyes red, skin blotchy, lips trembling like she’s been chewing on them all day.
My heart starts hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every step she takes toward me drags, and the closer she gets, the worse it feels. I already know what she’s about to say, I just don’t want to believe it.
The gravel crunches under her shoes. She stops a foot in front of me, arms crossed tight, head down, breathing uneven. The night’s quiet, but everything inside me is loud—panic, guilt, this strange rush of protectiveness that I can’t explain.
She looks up finally, and she doesn’t have to say a word. She’s pregnant.
“Are you sure?” I manage to choke out.
She nods and reaches for her purse, pulling out two white sticks with blue caps.
“Damn it,” I utter out under my breath as my shoulders drop. My stomach knots, and before I can stop it, my mind goes back to that night.
It was late, the night after the fair, we had stayed at the creek longer than I thought we would.
The night air was hot, the sounds of the water and the crickets were peaceful. We had laid a blanket out, started out just talking, laughing; it was easy. It’s always easy with her. Then we started kissing, and somewhere in between, everything blurred.
We didn’t plan it. We barely even talked about it. It just happened—a little awkward, unsteady, full of nerves and giggling apologies. We didn’t really know what we were doing, only that stopping felt impossible.
When it was over, we just laid there listening to the water, her head on my chest, our heartbeats almost in sync with each other. Pretending our relationship hadn’t just completely shifted.
And now, here we are.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her voice breaks, dragging me back to the present. She’s crying so hard she can barely breathe. I swipe a hand down my face and reach for her, fingers finding hers. I squeeze, but it’s useless. Nothing I do feels like enough.
She falls apart completely, sobs shaking her shoulders, tears soaking my sleeve.
“Hey,” I whisper, holding her tighter. “Callie.”
She doesn’t stop. So I don’t try to say anything else. I just hold her.
“I don’t know what to do,” she weeps. “I don’t know who to tell. My parents will freak. Josie will freak. They’re going to—”
“Callie, stop.” I pull back, making her look at me. “Don’t go there.”
“Mitch, what about your parents?” she snaps. “They’ll be so pissed.”
“And we’ll deal with it. One thing at a time. You first, the baby. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
She shakes her head, voice cracking. “I don’t even know what to do next. See a doctor? Get an ultrasound? I don’t—”
“I don’t either,” I admit. “But we’ll figure it out.”
She turns away, hands in her hair, crying all over again.
I take a deep breath, the guilt eating at me from that night. We knew it was wrong and we did it anyway.
“We shouldn’t have.” I sigh, running a hand back through my hair.
“Yeah.” She swallows. “I know.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and final. She wipes at her face, but it doesn’t stop the tears. I don’t blame her. I can’t even find words, let alone the right ones.
So I stand there, staring at the ground between us—the dirt, the grass, the burnout marks on the road, as I try to make sense of what comes next.
She sniffles. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
Her lips tremble. “Yeah, I do. I should’ve…” She shakes her head, unable to finish.
“Babe, stop. We both should’ve. I should’ve stopped. I should’ve—”
The words catch in my throat, heavy and raw. “I should’ve been smarter. I should’ve protected you.”
She presses her lips together, and I can tell she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t. She just nods, silent tears sliding down her cheeks.
“I need to go,” she says after a long few seconds.
I want to tell her not to, that she can stay, that we can figure this out together. But the words die in my throat, replaced by the reality that neither of us has a plan. Not yet.
So I just nod. “Text me when you’re home, okay?”
“Yeah.”
She gives me one last look and then she gets in her car. I watch her headlights pull away, curving down the dirt road until they disappear completely.
I just stand here, staring at the spot where she was. The still air, the sound of crickets.
And when I get back in my truck, I light another cigarette and sit with it, staring out the windshield, smoke curling out the open window. My mind buzzing. I let my head fall back against the headrest and close my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper out loud to myself. My voice sounds so small. “God, I’m sorry. I screwed up.” My throat tightens. “I knew better. You know I did too, I just…didn’t care. I didn’t stop. And now…”
The words fade, swallowed up by the stillness around me. I drag a hand over my face “She doesn’t deserve this,” I say, quieter now. “If You’re listening—please—just make sure she’s okay. I don’t care about me. Just please make sure she’s okay.”
The only answer is the hum of crickets and the low blow of wind through the pine trees. But somehow, that still feels like something.
So I keep talking. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next. Just…help me do this right.”
I take another drag, staring out through the windshield at a sky full of stars. They blur and sharpen as I blink, tears burning the corners of my eyes.
The weight of everything—choices, consequences, love, faith. It’s all tangled together so heavy that it hurts.
I start the truck eventually, but I don’t leave right away. I just sit there, engine idling, praying for the same thing over and over under my breath—for guidance.
* * *
The alarm’s been going off for a while before I finally roll over and shut it off. The red numbers on the clock read 6:47. Great. I’m late.
I toss the blanket back and sit there for a second, elbows on my knees, trying to rub the grit of half-sleep from my eyes.
My head’s pounding, and it’s not from being tired—it’s from thinking too much.
Every time I started to drift off, I saw her again.
The headlights. Her face. Those test sticks in her hand.
I shove myself up, pull on a T-shirt, grab a pair of jeans, and slide my hat on.
Mom’s unloading the dishwasher when I rush into the kitchen, dressed already. “I was wondering if you meant to sleep this late,” she says without looking up.
“Yeah,” I mutter, reaching for the coffee. “Couldn’t fall asleep.”
I set my thermos in the sink and fill it with water while I tighten the lid on my coffee cup and pack my lunch.
I’m headed out to my truck less than five minutes later. The morning air is thick and wet, the kind that sticks to your skin before the day even begins. The sun’s barely over the trees, but it’s already promising to be hot. I toss my lunch cooler on the passenger seat and start the engine.
The radio comes on loud—something upbeat, country, way too cheerful for how I feel. I turn it down and back out of the driveway.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and almost don’t recognize myself. My eyes look tired. Older somehow. Like one night flipped a switch I can’t turn back off.
I haven’t stopped thinking about Callie.
About her saying it out loud. Pregnant. The word still doesn’t feel real, like if I don’t say it again it might disappear.
The knot in my stomach hasn’t loosened once since last night.
I spent what felt like the entire night praying—same words, same plea, over and over.
It was the kind of prayer that felt too small for how big the problem is, but it was all I had.
I almost texted her a dozen times. Almost called. But I didn’t want to wake her, and honestly, I didn’t even know what I’d say that wouldn’t make things worse.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder—probably Luke wondering where the hell I am. I don’t bother checking. I’m less than a minute away.
Luke doesn’t give me too much crap. He’s got everything ready to go by the time I get there, and we’re out onto the main road in five minutes.
He’s already talking about Maddie, college, how they’re, surprisingly, not fighting about anything currently.
I’m trying to listen, act normal, but I’m drifting.
The Fourth of July’s in two days. Everyone’s looking forward to fireworks, tubing, bonfires. And all I can think about is how on earth Callie and I are going to keep all of this quiet.