48. Chapter 48
Chapter 48
LANE
My thoughts churn in my head like freshly tilled soil. It’s as if, with one swift movement, Gabby uprooted all my weeds and exposed them to the light.
Is she right?
Have I been so focused on being perfect, all while punishing myself because of one mistake? Was I so blinded by my own shame that I pushed Teagan away?
Self-sabotage, that’s what Gabby called it.
I hate to say it fits. This whole time, I’ve blamed keeping Chance’s secret on preserving my father’s future, but when you love someone, you tell them everything.
And I trusted Teagan. Enough to tell Sophie we were dating. Enough to allow him a place in my life with her. I should’ve told him, yet didn’t. Why?
We accept the love we feel we deserve.
It’s the one phrase that keeps running through my head and every time I think about it, I feel a little piece of me crack.
How many times did I tell myself no one would want me because I’m a young, single mom?
A thousand. A million. Every time a man dared to look in my direction with even the slightest hint of interest.
Yet it was a lie.
I lied to myself time and time again, because Teagan did want me. I was just too damned stubborn to give him all of me when he asked.
I drop my head back against the headboard of my bed, staring at nothing when my gaze falls to my nightstand and the leather-bound journal I’ve kept since junior high. The binding is cracked. Pages have been added and old ones glued back into place. Inside, are hundreds of entries, and though I don’t use it all that much anymore, there was a time when I did. When I used it nearly every day, spilling everything I couldn’t bear to say out loud onto its pages.
Reaching out, I pick it up and run my fingers over the worn leather cover, then crack it open. Each entry is labeled with a date at the top, making it easy to find that day—the one that changed everything.
I’m pregnant.
I can barely believe it.
The word rolls around in my head like a bowling ball every time I think about it, thoughts scattering like pins at its impact.
I’m still shocked, but I have the pregnancy test to prove it. Two pink lines and my whole world is about to change.
How could I let this happen? How could I be so dumb?
I’m so disappointed in myself, I can barely look in the mirror.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I know better.
My heart clenches as I turn the page on my journal and find another entry, skimming it and reading only the parts that jump out at me with a kind of sick fascination as I relive all the big moments in my life?days, weeks, months.
I’m going to tell Chance today. I don’t want to wait. Waiting won’t make this any less real, so there’s no point in it. Besides, he loves me. What could go wrong?
He’s coming over in about an hour to go over the playbook with Dad and then we were going to steal a few moments together like we always do.
I’ll tell him then.
It will be okay.
We’ll face this together.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, thinking about how I’d felt. I really thought it would work out, that Chance and I would ride the wave of parenthood together and everything would be okay.
The next page tells another story.
Chance doesn’t want the baby.
When he told me, I didn’t even know what to say. I was speechless, stunned into silence. After I recovered, I told him it was okay, that I understood. And I do, kind of. He starts at Cumberland University next year, and there’s a lot riding on him to excel as a rookie quarterback. Most think he’ll go pro.
Still, I’m not sure where that leaves us. Me and the baby in my belly.
But it’s my decision to keep her. Not that I know it’s a her. I suppose it could very well be a boy. Either way, I’ll do this alone. I have to.
I just hope God blesses me with a really easy baby because this is surely going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And though I’m trying to be brave, I’m scared. So, so scared.
I told Mom and Dad today.
I don’t know what I expected. Disappointment? Screaming? Yelling? Judgment? For them to kick me out of the house?
I received none of those things.
Shock, yes. Sympathy, absolutely. And, yeah, maybe they’re a little disappointed even if they won’t say so, but it was nothing like I’d feared.
Overall, they were just really supportive, which makes me feel even worse because I didn’t tell them the truth about the father.
But how could I?
A few weeks ago, I overheard Dad on the phone with the athletic director at CU, and I know he’s been promised the coaching position there next year if he signs Chance and brings him with him.
My dad’s dream has been to coach college football for as long as I can remember. He’s worked so hard, but I know what he’ll do if I tell him. He’ll confront Chance and refuse the spot. But Chance will only be around for a handful of years while my father’s career will last five times that. I can’t let my mistake destroy his dream. I just can’t.
My life isn’t the only one that’s about to change, and the gift of ignorance is the least I can do for them because my parent’s lives will change with this baby, too. People will stare. They’ll talk about how their teen daughter got knocked up. They’ll have a newborn in the house, crying and crawling and making a mess. Since I’m under their health insurance, my medical bills from the pregnancy and birth will be theirs. Instead of preparing to be empty nesters, they’re starting all over again. Well, not quite because she’s mine, but close.
All those reasons and more are what make me even more determined to make this as easy as possible for them. They shouldn’t have to suffer because of my mistakes.
So, I’ll handle everything, do everything myself. I won’t ask them for a thing, and they won’t have to lift a finger. After my hospital bills are paid, I won’t ask them for a dime.
It’ll be as if I truly am a single mom, living on my own. The things I can control, I’ll control. And all the other things . . . I’ll just have to make up for them.
My chest tightens as I lower the journal. There it was. The moment I decided I’d keep the burden from them and shoulder everything myself. Only, I did so to the point of destruction, like I’m some kind of fucking martyr.
I flip the pages quickly, only picking up words and phrases as they blur together before my eyes.
Today, Danny Connors called me a slut . . .
I thought Kiera, Jenny, and Amanda were my friends, but today, I overheard them at the lunch table laughing at me and talking about me when they thought I couldn’t hear.
Gabby told them to fuck off.
Guess they’re not my friends, after all . . .
Prom is only a couple months away and I really want to go, but I’m not holding my breath. Most of the kids treat me like a pariah. My old friends see me coming and they do everything they can to avoid me, even crossing the hall to walk on the other side.
I’m five months along now and showing, which is probably part of the problem. Like a fool, I thought maybe Chance would take pity on me and ask me to the dance. After all, I am carrying his baby. But then I heard Mira talking with a friend in study hall. Turns out, they’re going together.
It stings just a little.
He and I made a mistake and yet I’m the only one paying for it.
Sometimes it seems unfair, but then I remind myself not to dwell on it since I can’t change it.
Gabby asked me to go with her, but I don’t think I will. I know she likes Kevin Rooney, and rumor has it he’s going to ask her. The last thing I want to do is be the pathetic pregnant friend and play third wheel.
At least I got to go to junior prom . . .
I’m counting down the days until graduation, which is only a couple weeks before my due date. Maybe I’ll even go into labor first, and then I won’t even make my ceremony.
Either way, it’ll be a relief. I’m huge. I can now say with confidence I know how Hester Prynne from The Scarlet Letter must have felt. I might as well have a giant A on my back for how much everyone stares at me . . .
When I returned to my seat after receiving my diploma, the group of kids in front of me snickered. I was so embarrassed . . .
My hands clutch the journal, my eyes watery as I remember how hard those days were. Reading the entries over for the first time feels like reliving them all over again, but I know there are happier days in store, so I flip forward a few pages where the entries morph and change.
After the birth of Sophie, the entries brighten. My words are full of joy and love, instead of despair, and my eyes well with tears just reading them.
She’s so beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the world . . .
I’m three months postpartum, and it’s amazing what breastfeeding can do. I’m back to my pre-pregnancy size, which my doctor also says has a lot to do with how young I am and my body’s ability to bounce back so quick.
I guess there’s at least one perk to having a baby at seventeen.
I was feeling pretty good about myself until I was walking to class and a guy from Sociology came up to me. He has sandy hair that brushes his collar and bright green eyes. The old me would totally think he’s cute, but new me knows better than to even entertain the idea of finding a man attractive when I know it could lead nowhere. Even if I wanted to date, I don’t have time. I barely have time as it is between my gig working from home, classes, and Sophie. But I also know better than to think a college freshman would want to date a single mom to a newborn.
As if to prove myself right, when he asked me out, I told him I wasn’t sure I could get a sitter for my three-month-old and he blanched. Every ounce of blood drained from his face as he took three giant steps back, voice shaking as he said that could be a problem, and, actually, he was busy, anyway.
Never mind the fact he asked me out.
Then he turned and ran like his pants were on fire.
I document several other similar experiences, not that I was even looking to date, but the more I read, the more I see how right Gabby was. It’s not hard to read between the lines. From the moment I got pregnant, I decided I wasn’t worthy of love, and with the exception of Gabby and my parents, the world around me seemed to agree. All I saw were the weight of my mistakes, and ever since, I’ve been hellbent on correcting them. I used to think I was proving to everyone else—the cruel kids at school, the girls who used to be my friends, all the boys who ran when they found out I had a child—that I was worth something, that I had succeeded and made something of myself.
But now I wonder if maybe this whole time, I was trying to prove it to myself. I needed to know I was worth it. I needed proof.
The epiphany hits me like a ton of bricks.
Maybe this whole time, I’ve felt unworthy of love, which is why when it smacked me in the face, I did everything in my power to run away.
The thought sits heavily on my shoulders as I turn back to the journal.
I read about Sophie’s first smile and her first taste of baby food. I read the joy of milestone moments like crawling and her first steps. I read about late nights studying, then waking to a crying baby. I relive scrimping and saving to throw her a first birthday party. I relive the day I found the lake house and solidified my dream. Doctor’s visits and work and laundry and meal prep.
I fucking did it all.
Me.
Not only did I bring the most beautiful, sweetest, intelligent little girl into the world, but I did it with a fucking smile. I worked and saved money and went to school. And, yeah, it was hard, but I proved I can do hard things.
By the time I close the journal, I’m so fucking proud of myself, my heart is bursting.
This whole time, I’ve never given myself any credit for what I’d done up to this point, and maybe I was lucky. I have wonderful parents who supported me every step of the way, but that doesn’t negate my hard work. It doesn’t take away from the sacrifices I had to make to get to where I am now.
I inhale, breathing through the swelling in my chest as I remember the first time I met Teagan. The spark of interest in his eyes and the way he flirted made it clear he was interested. And then he asked for my number and I immediately wrote him off. In my mind, he didn’t stand a chance because there was no way he’d want me?a single mom with a messy life.
But he did want me.
And now I can see why.
I’ve always known Sophie was a blessing and anyone I welcomed into her life was lucky to have her, but what about me? It’s been four years, and I still haven’t forgiven myself for not being perfect. The problem with self-criticism is it blocks out the ability to see all the good because you’re so focused on the flaws.
And I have so much to offer someone.
But now I might’ve lost the man I love, all because I couldn’t believe in myself enough to tell him the truth.
Because we accept the love we believe we deserve.
I stand, clutching the journal to my chest, my heart pounding. “Our story can’t end like this,” I murmur to myself. “It just can’t.”