Chapter 2
Abby
This isn’t real.
The positive pregnancy test in my hand says otherwise.
Someone bangs on the bathroom door and I jolt in alarm.
“Wait your turn,” I yell through the door.
“You’ve been in there for twenty minutes,” a person barks back. “Are you shitting out your guts or what?”
With a heavy sigh of frustration, I throw the test in the trash and quickly finish up. After washing my hands in the stained sink, I dry them on my jeans since there aren’t any paper towels.
Are you sure you want to work here?
Not really, but I’m running out of options.
I fling open the door and a woman with tanned, excessively wrinkled skin shoots me a nasty glare. As I walk out, she shuffles past me reeking of stale cigarette smoke and some kind of liquor. Bile creeps up my throat and I swallow it down, quickly putting distance between the two of us.
This is how I knew something was wrong.
Everything smells awful.
The crinkly yellow plastic bag that held my pregnancy test hangs out of my half-open purse and I quickly shove it down, hiding it. Before coming to my interview, I used my last two crumply dollars to buy the test.
I’ve done a lot of stupid crap in my lifetime, but this feels like the ultimate low.
Pregnant. Homeless. Jobless. Hungry.
My stomach grumbles at that thought.
I could go back home. Beg for help. Suck up my feelings about my parents and sister just to get what I need.
But at what cost? My sanity?
Rock music somehow makes it through the buzzing in my ears, bringing my focus to the here and now.
One thing at a time, and the first one is finding a job.
A few guys drinking near the bar skim their eyes over my chest, interest flickering in their gazes.
I’m fully aware that my tits have gotten bigger, and apparently, they’re a fan.
“I’m looking for a manager,” I say to the guy behind the bar.
He’s wearing big eyeglasses that make his eyes seem bigger than they are. His dishwater hair is combed over, and he keeps licking his thin lips that are covered in sores. Gross.
“I’m the manager,” he says. “The name’s Barry. You got a problem, young lady?”
I’m grateful he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake. He gives me the ick.
“There’s a sign on the door that says you’re hiring a dishwasher.” I shudder when one of the tit-looker guys blows a plume of smoke at me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lash out at the man, but I really need the money. “I’m looking for a job.”
Barry’s enormous eyes drop to my tits that are straining in my T-shirt, and he licks his lips again. Between the smoke stench and these leering men, I’m feeling nauseous. Again.
“Not just to wash dishes,” Barry says, big eyes gleaming like he knows a juicy secret. “Clean tables and shit, too. Sweep and mop after closing. Run trash to the dumpster. Maybe bring drinks to the customers. You could probably pull me in some big tips.”
If Mom knew I was considering this job, she might have an aneurysm.
Dad would be disgusted.
Shame threatens to rear its ugly head, but I stomp it back down, lift my chin, and meet Barry’s scuzzy gaze.
“I can do it,” I tell him. “And I want all the tips I pull in.”
“No tips.”
“Half,” I counter, frustration mounting.
“Deal.” He holds out his hand that also has sores on it.
Yeah, not shaking that creepy thing.
“Great,” I say, voice falsely chipper. “When do I start? Tonight?”
I need money. Like yesterday.
“Come in tomorrow afternoon,” Barry says with a wolfish grin. “Dress code is shorts and a tank top. You got those? The tighter the better if you want to make good money.”
Just crawl your ass back home, Abs.
Stubbornness has me fighting back that urge to beg my family for help. I give Barry a quick nod, scribble my number on a napkin, and then skip out of the dinky bar before I change my mind. It’s imperative that I keep my job.
A few bikers stand near their bikes, smoking and watching me with narrowed eyes. This area of town is older and not a lot of money goes into the beautification of the area. I can bet no one besides me in my family has ever even been over here. At least there’s no fear of running into one of them.
A biker with a long white beard and missing a few teeth whistles at me before making a crude gesture that I think is supposed to be me sucking his dick.
I shoot him the finger and then fish my phone from my pocket.
The man and his friends laugh. Someone calls me a bitch.
Another suggests they teach me to obey my elders.
One says I need a good spanking. Ignoring them all, I stride past them, my step purposeful and my chin held high.
When I make it to the corner, I get a whiff of something fried coming from a nearby diner.
My stomach whines for me to make my way over there.
There’s a credit card in my wallet that my dad gave me for emergencies.
Even when I screwed up and used it for random crap I didn’t need, he didn’t take it away from me or cancel it.
It’ll get me fed.
But it’ll also give Dad the satisfaction of knowing I still need him.
It’s not just you anymore…
I’ve barely learned I’m pregnant and it’s already swaying my decisions. Another person is reliant on my ability to make good decisions. Eating, even if I have to eat crow in the process, is a good decision.
You could call the baby’s father…
No.
I hurry over to the diner, my stomach groaning happily at the prospect of eating something good.
For weeks now I’ve been couch surfing. Friends, acquaintances, a few people met when I was dabbling in drugs.
I don’t stay more than a day or two at each place, never wanting to wear out my welcome.
Right now, I’m just a nomadic free spirit.
It’s just a fancy way of saying I’m homeless and completely fucked.
“Sit wherever you like, hon,” a waitress says when I enter the ancient diner.
It’s such a far cry from the places my parents like to eat at. They’re probably dining at the country club restaurant at this exact moment. They’re predictable like that.
I’d almost give anything for a steak right now.
But chicken and waffles from a greasy hole-in-the-wall place will have to do instead.
Since water makes me gag lately, I order a Sprite and some fried pickles to hold me over until my meal comes.
The sickness I’d felt earlier is gone and I can’t inhale the fried, salty tangy goodness quick enough.
When I lick the ranch container clean after demolishing the appetizer, I notice a few patrons frowning at me.
This is the best thing I’ve eaten in days.
The guy’s place I stayed at last night has an obscene amount of ramen noodles and beer. Since beer also makes me gag lately, and now is no longer an option, that leaves ramen for sustenance. Definitely time to move on. After eating, I’ll grab my backpack and then crash at my friend Jody’s.
“Can I get extra syrup and butter?” I say to the waitress when she drops off my chicken and waffles.
“You got hollow legs or something?” She chuckles at her joke. “I bet you could eat a whole buffet and not gain an ounce.”
I force a polite smile. I’m not one for small talk. I just want my syrup and butter.
When she realizes I’m not going to go along with her banter, she waddles off to fetch me what I need. After she comes back, I drown my food in the butter and syrup, then inhale it like it’s my last meal.
Who knows…it could be.
Between shoveling in bites of food, I shoot Jody a text.
Me: Coming by to hang. See you in an hour?
The three dots move and then stop. I chase the sweet goodness down with a gulp of Sprite. Finally, Jody responds.
Jody: You stole my boots, Abby.
I shift in my seat and the boots in question squeak on the linoleum floor.
Me: Borrowed. Didn’t think you would care.
Jody: Maybe you should have asked first. We’re not those kinds of friends.
My chest tightens. What does that even mean?
Me: So that’s a no to hanging out?
Jody: Drop my boots off. I’m busy.
Tears prickle in my eyes and I let out a bark of annoyed laughter. Stupid pregnancy hormones.
Me: Fine. I’ll bring them by. How’s your boyfriend?
It’s a bitch thing to ask. I just want her to feel bad like how she just made me feel. Now she’ll obsess over what that question means.
Jody: He’s fine. Why?
Me: Tell him I said hi.
Her boyfriend is a dick and not even cute, but I feel better knowing this will piss her off.
“Want some pie?” the waitress asks. “We have a fabulous brownie a-la-mode drizzled in hot caramel sauce and topped off with bits of toffee, a huge scoop of vanilla bean ice cream, and a maraschino cherry. What do you say?”
“You had me at brownie,” I say with a real smile. “Thank you.”
While she scurries off to put the order in, I text another friend.
Me: You home? I can bring some pie, and we can watch a movie.
Then I can conveniently fall asleep there “on accident.”
Daniel: Going out tonight with a new woman I met.
Me: After?
Daniel: Unless you want to finally show me your pussy and are up for a threesome, no. I’m looking to get laid, A. You like to sleep over but won’t let me touch you. You’re just a cocktease.
And here I thought we were friends.
Fuckface.
Me: I hope you get chlamydia.
The waitress brings me my dessert, and I damn near lick the plate clean. I hope this little baby is happy. I’m not sure I can promise when the next good meal will come.
I fish out my dad’s card and slap it onto the bill once the waitress delivers it. She disappears with the ticket and the card. It takes her an unusually long time, but eventually she returns.
“Sorry, hon, but it’s not working.”
My stomach roils. “Try it again.”
“I tried it six different times. Got another card or cash?”
Dread washes over me. Nope. I have nothing of the sort.
“Uh,” I say slowly as I slide out of the booth. “Let me look.”
The waitress shuffles over to another table to refill their drinks. I really hate to do this to her, but I have no other choice. Without thinking too hard on it, I rush out the front door. I hear her shout at me, but I’m already out and hoofing it down the sidewalk before she can stop me.
My heart races inside my chest. I quickly turn a corner and hobble down the dark alley. All this walking in Jody’s stupid combat boots are wearing a blister on my heel. As I walk, I scroll through my phone, searching all my contacts. The list is getting thinned out by the day.
You could call him.
You have to speak to him anyway.
When I reach the end of the alley, I sit on a curb in front of a convenience store. I’m grateful for what battery life I have left as I search the internet for the country club directory.
Rhett Monahan.
As soon as I see his name, a flash of a memory zaps through me. I remember being so thrilled to see the uptight bastard lose control.
The guilt at what I’d done came after I sobered up.
Does he feel guilty?
I mash his number and wait for him to answer.
“Hello?”
“We have to talk.”
“Who is this?”
I’m tired and cranky and my feet hurt. Plus, I enjoy flustering the man.
“You’ve been inside me. You should know who this is.”
“Abby? What the fuck?”
The fact he knew it was me sends a flurry of relief flooding through me. I wasn’t that forgettable.
“I’m pregnant.” I pause and when he doesn’t respond, I add, “You’re the father, Rhett.”
He disconnects the call.
Asshole.