Chapter 6
MOLLY
As the weeks go by, I finally come to terms with the fact that Samuil isn’t going to call me. It’s disappointing, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I put myself back together and pick up the pieces, just like I always have.
Somehow, my world starts to return to normal, but there’s still this lingering sense that everything is different now. I keep telling myself to stop being ridiculous. These things happen. Sometimes you just meet incredible strangers, have the best sex of your life, and never hear from them again.
Then I wonder if it was all just a fever dream.
I tell myself that I’m fine, that everything is fine.
My life is back to normal, no different than it was before I met Samuil.
I go into work every morning an hour before school starts.
I teach classes all day long, keep an eye on my most troubled students, and stay late when I have to. It’s all completely mundane.
Nobody knows any different. Kelly, my friend and mentor, says I seem different in a way she can’t even define, but I tell her it’s just the change in the weather and nothing else.
A month stretches, sliding between lesson planning, cafeteria duty, parent conferences, math tests, and the endless cycle of trying to keep twenty-two kids safe and learning with half the resources we need.
There are days when I’m so busy I barely look up from my desk, days when I forget to eat lunch until Kelly throws a granola bar on my table and gives me that very specific look she reserves for when she thinks I’m about to pass out.
She’s usually right. I haven’t had time to have a real lunch with her in ages.
A couple of times this month, I’ve been sure I saw the man who attacked me.
Twice I’ve caught a glimpse of someone with the same build, the same jacket, the same cruel angle of his jaw, walking across the grocery store parking lot or leaning against the bus shelter near my apartment.
Both times, my breath evaporated instantly, leaving me cold and dizzy and unable to move for a few seconds.
When I blinked, he was gone, or he’d turn out to be someone else entirely, a stranger who looked nothing like him.
It makes me feel ridiculous, walking around jumpy and paranoid, seeing danger where there is none.
But I still walk faster, still keep my keys clutched tight between my fingers, still take the long way home if I catch even a fragment of a shadow out of the corner of my eye.
I know I won’t get so lucky twice. Seeing Samuil again is definitely not worth putting myself in danger.
I haven’t told anyone about what happened that night.
By the time Saturday arrives, I’m so frayed around the edges that Kelly texts me twice just to make sure I’m alive.
We decide to meet for coffee at the place near the park, the one with the mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menu, and the barista with purple hair who is always humming something under her breath.
When I step inside, the rich, warm smell of roasted coffee doesn’t give me the same hit of dopamine it usually does. In fact, I feel like I’m going to vomit the second the smell hits my nose.
My stomach twists sharply, an immediate rolling wave that sends me stumbling back a half step.
I press a hand to my stomach instinctively, trying to steady my breathing.
It’s unusual and irrational. I drink coffee every day.
I basically live on it. I need it to survive the morning chaos of fifth graders. Why is the smell so cloying today?
Kelly spots me the instant I hesitate and waves me over.
“Girl, you look exhausted,” she says as soon as I drop into the chair across from her. “And a little green. You feeling okay?”
“Just tired,” I answer quickly. “It’s been a long week.”
She eyes me with her signature stare, so annoyingly perceptive it feels like she can see through the cracks I try to cover up. I try to smile, but the swirl in my stomach sharpens, and I look away, focusing on the chalkboard menu instead of the coffee aroma tightening my throat.
She launches into a story about another horrible dating app experience, complete with dramatic reenactments and the kind of commentary that usually sends me into a fit of giggles. Today I smile, but it feels thin, stretched too tight around the edges. She notices immediately.
“You’re not listening to me,” she accuses, though there’s no anger in her tone. “What’s going on with you?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, even though we both know that’s a lie.
She narrows her eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me.”
I let out a breath and pick at the seam of my sleeve.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “You’re right. I’m exhausted, and I think I must be getting a stomach bug.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but just then the door chimes and the smell of fresh espresso fills the café again. My stomach lurches violently. I stand so fast my chair screeches across the floor.
“I need to go,” I say abruptly.
Kelly stands too, reaching for me. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” I protest, thinking about how much I don’t want to vomit in her car. “I think the walk will be good for me. I’ll text you later.”
I don’t wait for her to respond because I’m already heading for the exit, trying to breathe through the nausea threatening to spill over in public.
Outside, the cold January air hits me, and the shock of it helps a little, but the twisting sensation deep in my core doesn’t ease.
I walk down the sidewalk, drawing in slow breaths and trying to calm myself.
It’s probably nothing. Stress or any number of nasty germs the kids pass around.
The pharmacy is on my way home, and I decide to stop in and get some medicine. I head toward the back, but on my way, I pass an aisle that I don’t normally go down. As my eyes land on a pink box, a wave of panic washes over me, rising on top of the nausea.
I stand there, staring at the shelf. My hands tremble slightly as I reach for the box, then grab another brand just to be safe. I pay at the self-checkout so I don’t have to look anyone in the eye as I make my purchase.
When I finally reach my apartment, I lock myself in my bathroom even though I’m the only one here. I take the test out of the box, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. I tell myself again that I’m just doing this for peace of mind. There’s no way I could be pregnant.
Except that I’m late. I’ve been feeling more tired than usual. The smell of coffee alone almost made me lose it. I swallow hard as I try again not to vomit.
The instructions blur. My vision swims. I sit on the edge of the tub and wait. It feels like the longest minute of my life. When the results appear, my breath leaves my lungs in one silent rush.
It’s positive.
I’m pregnant. I stare at the tiny window until the lines blur and my eyes sting.
I always wanted a family. A real family. Something that belonged to me. Something no one could take away. I wanted to break the cycle of my childhood, to build something good out of everything that hurt me.
But this isn’t how I imagined it at all.
I always pictured it years from now, when I had stability and a home with a yard and maybe someone who loved me. Not now. Not alone. Not with a man I barely know. A man who brutally murdered another man as if it was nothing. A man who gave me the best orgasms of my life and never called me again.
It’s all wrong, and not remotely the kind of life I’d hoped to give a child.
And yet, underneath the fear and the nausea, something else starts to bubble up in my chest. It’s a fragile and overwhelming joy.
I’m going to have a baby. Someone who’s all mine. Someone who belongs to me. Someone I can love without fear of being discarded. Someone who’s half me. I’ll have a real family, even if it isn’t the way I pictured it.
The tears start falling down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying.
I slide down to the floor, pressing the test to my chest, and let myself sob, not out of fear or regret but out of sheer, fierce relief that there will finally be someone in this world who is mine. My tiny, unexpected miracle.
Monday morning comes too quickly. I hardly sleep Sunday night, lying awake with my hands resting over my stomach even though nothing has changed outwardly.
I keep thinking about the life inside me.
The tiny heartbeat that will grow. The future I hadn’t expected.
The strange sense of hope unfurling like a warm ribbon in my chest.
I go to work, still pretending everything is normal, even though my life is now so much more incredible than I could have imagined.
I probably could have called out sick to give myself more time to process the news, but my kids need me.
Because no matter what’s happening in my body or my life, my students come first.
Unfortunately, the day quickly becomes overwhelming. Every tiny sound grates on my nerves. Every smell in the hallways makes me want to throw up. I can barely eat the lunch I actually packed today because I’m too anxious and excited.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m exhausted.
I gather my bags slowly, carefully, mindful of the little baby in my belly.
My car is back from the shop now, thank God, so at least I don’t have to run for the bus.
I walk toward the parking lot with one arm unconsciously wrapped around my belly, not protecting anything visible but craving the contact.
The winter air bites at my cheeks and my breath fogs in front of me.
I reach my car and dig for my keys. They slip from my fingers and clatter to the asphalt. I crouch to grab them.
When I stand, someone is there.
My heart stops.
He steps out from behind my car exactly the way he’s done a dozen times in my nightmares.
He looks around casually, as if we’re just two coworkers crossing paths in a parking lot instead of a predator and his terrified witness. He’s somehow even more intimidating in the light of day than he was the night he attacked me.
“You really are a pretty little thing,” he murmurs, stepping closer. His voice is exactly the same as the night I heard it in the alley. Cold, sharp, and cruel. “Looks like you made it out all right.”
My throat closes. I can’t move. My back hits the driver’s side door before I realize I’m backing away.
“I didn’t say anything to anyone,” I manage. My voice sounds wrong. Too thin. Too hollow.
“You’d better keep it that way.”
He steps so close I can smell stale cigarettes on his breath.
“People who talk have accidents.”
Fear rushes through me so fast my vision blurs. My hand instinctively moves to my belly. His eyes flick down and narrow.
“You keep your mouth shut,” he says, tapping a finger under my chin. “Before it’s too late for you.”
He walks away and doesn’t look back. He just disappears between the rows of cars, blending into the world like nothing happened.
My knees buckle the second he’s gone.
I drop into the driver’s seat and slam the lock button so hard my finger stings.
I fold forward, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel, shaking so violently I can barely breathe.
My hands clutch my belly, instinctively protecting the life inside me even though logic tells me nothing can touch it yet.
Tears burn my eyes, but I force them back. I don’t know who to tell. I don’t know who to call. I don’t know who can help me. Because the one man I want to tell has ghosted me.