Chapter 12
Callie
The grocery store feels too bright for a morning like this. Too loud. Too normal.
Maddie and Macy traipse through the aisles ahead of me, already arguing about what snacks to buy, telling me I should make a double batch of strawberry bars this year, their banter practically echoing through the store.
I’m trying to laugh or join in, match their energy, but I can’t.
It’s like my body’s here, but my mind’s still back with Mitch’s truck—parked on that back road last night, tears and silence and him whispering, “We’ll figure it out. ”
Now I’m standing under the harsh glow of fluorescent lights, pretending I’m the same girl I was two days ago.
People wave as they pass—Mr. Gentry from the hardware store, a couple of moms from church—and I smile because that’s what you do in a town like Holland Valley. But inside, I swear every one of them can see it written across my face.
The secret. The mistake. The life growing inside me.
Standing here trying to have a normal conversation about chips and pretzels is the last thing I need to be worried about. Not when my whole life just got turned upside down.
“Okay,” Maddie says, tossing a pack of red-white-and-blue popsicles into the cart. “Who’s bringing the drinks? I’m not getting stuck with just water like last year.”
“I can bring lemonade,” I say.
Macy spins around. “Lemonade? You mean the kind with or without vodka?”
I tilt my head. “Without, obviously.”
Maddie laughs, scratching something off the list. “Boring,” she mutters.
“Well, I’ll enjoy that,” Macy says easily. She’s never been big on drinking. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drunk. Not once. She’s the built-in mom of the group, the one who double-checks rides home and reminds us we’re all eighteen and not exactly legal. And it works. We need her.
I’m probably runner-up mom. I hate hangovers enough to know my limit and stop before things get messy.
Maddie, though—Maddie’s a different story entirely. Wild, reckless, fully aware she’s not supposed to be doing half the things she jokes about…and usually doing them anyway.
I force a laugh. “I just haven’t really felt like drinking.”
“Since when?” Maddie asks, eyebrow raised.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just…don’t want to.”
She shrugs too, moves on. My heartbeat doesn’t.
We turn the corner toward the pharmacy aisle, and Maddie stops short. “Oh, shoot. Almost forgot.” She reaches for a box from the shelf and drops it into the cart.
Condoms.
The box lands with a thud on top of the snacks. For a second, the world goes quiet.
Maddie grins. “Luke keeps forgetting, and I’m not about to risk it again.”
My breath catches. I stare at the box like it’s glowing.
If it had been me last month, I would’ve rolled my eyes, teased her.
Now I can barely breathe.
Because that little box—bright, ordinary, right there between the buns and the soda—is everything we didn’t do. Everything that could’ve kept my life from turning upside down.
I grip the cart handle tighter. The hum of the lights fades out and the memory floods in before I can stop it.
The night was warm, we sat on a blanket, talking about future plans, innocent, like usual.
We didn’t plan to do anything. We never even talked about it. It just…happened.
One kiss turned into two, then three, until there wasn’t any space left between us…or clothing. His hands trembled, mine did too. We were nervous and clumsy, whispering apologies and half laughing through it, hearts pounding like thunder.
Afterward, we laid there under the stars, the world too still. He brushed my hair from my face and told me how much he cared about me. His fingers brushing my skin so soft that it almost tickled.
“Callie, you okay?”
Maddie’s voice yanks me back. She’s staring at me over the cart, eyebrows drawn.
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Just tired.”
She nods, already distracted by Macy asking which chips to get.
I glance down at the cart again. The box is still there. A taunting reminder like a punch in the gut I can’t avoid.
They keep talking as we move toward the checkout. Maddie’s humming, Macy’s making plans for the Fourth. I stay quiet, watching the line ahead of us.
We were supposed to tell everyone this weekend—about us.
Mitch thought it’d be perfect timing—after the fireworks, when everyone’s relaxed and happy.
Now, every time I think about it, my chest tightens.
How am I supposed to tell them we’re together when I’m hiding something so much bigger? How do I stand there at the lake, pretending to sip lemonade, and not give myself away?
Every hello in this town already feels loaded. Every smile feels like they’re telling me they know my secret.
At the register, I start unloading the cart. When I grab the box—that box—I flip it over so the label faces down.
Maddie doesn’t notice. Macy’s talking about fireworks again. We split the total, handing over a mix of bills to the cashier.
Outside, the heat hits like a slap. The air smells like Mitch—fresh-cut grass and gasoline. Maddie talks about what swimsuits she’s packing, Macy joining in, and I just shrug, saying I haven’t thought about it yet, which is unlike me, but they don’t bat an eye, thankfully.
But my mind drifts anyway.
Bikinis. One-pieces. Will I look different? Will I feel different? Can I lay out in the sun? Swim in the lake? You’re not supposed to get in hot tubs, right? Or is that just a myth? I try to remember what people say, what I’ve heard in passing, what’s real and what’s just noise.
I don’t have answers yet. Just a lot of dumb questions.
When I get home, I unload the groceries, putting them right into a tote to pack into Mitch’s truck.
As normal as this should feel, it doesn’t. Instead, I feel like I’m trying to stay in a version of my life that can’t exist anymore.
When my phone buzzes on the counter, I grab it fast. It’s him.
Mitch: You home?
Me: Yeah. Just finished shopping with the girls.
Mitch: You okay?
I could lie. I could tell him I’m fine. But he knows me too well.
Me: Not really. Everything feels different now. I keep thinking people can tell. Like I’m walking around with a flashing sign over my head.
He doesn’t text back right away. For a minute, I think maybe I shouldn’t have said it, but then my screen lights again.
Mitch: I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out. I promise.
The tear slips free before I can stop it. It’s not sadness. Not panic. It’s just Mitch—the steadiness in those words, the way he always manages to make things feel survivable. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and stare at the bags still sitting on the floor.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. I’m not showing, not even close, I think it’s only the size of a poppy seed, but it’s like my body already knows something my mind can’t quite believe yet.
It’s not that I regret Mitch. I don’t.
I just wish we’d had more time to be kids before everything started feeling so grown-up.
The phone buzzes again.
Mitch: Try and get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.
I type back “okay,” even though we both know I won’t sleep.
When I finally set the phone down, the house is quiet. Outside, fireflies flash against the darkening sky, and the hum of a lawn mower echoes from a few houses over.
It’s such a normal night in such a small, predictable town. But I can feel the whole shape of my future shifting beneath me. And as much as I try to tell myself no one else knows, I can’t even begin to process their reaction when they do.