Laurelin
What else could I have done? What could I have said? After all, my brother caught us at the most unfortunate moment, with Tate’s seed in my mouth and my pussy convulsing from the man’s ministrations. Channing was at his absolute worst with those endless “yo yo yo’s” but it’s not my brother’s fault. It’s mine.
Now, months have passed since I left Tate’s home for the last time. Channing’s called at least twelve times to apologize, or to ask what the hell was going on, or a combination of the two, but I never answered, and eventually, my brother stopped. I haven’t spoken to him since. The leaves have fallen off their branches, and the days go dark early now. Everything is turning cold and barren, appropriately so, I think.
But what else could I have said?
I torture myself with this question every single day. It haunts me as I take a shower, and as I’m brushing my teeth. It invades my mind when I’m taking a walk through the park, or volunteering at the shelter, or playing with Toodles. I beat myself up when I wake in the afternoon and before I fall asleep, usually in the small hours of the early morning. I doze fitfully, torturously, but it’s the only relief I can find from this question, the question I can’t stop, won’t stop asking myself.
What else could I have said?
I don’t know. I guess I could have used my words more effectively, instead of stammering nonsense, but would it have made a difference? If I admitted that I’d been bored of my life and wanted to do something different, something scandalous, something entirely unexpected, would Tate have understood? Would he have pitied me, or thought I was an idiot? Would it have alleviated any of his pain? Would it have made anything okay?
Then again, I try to make allowances. Tate didn’t give me the chance to get a word in, so even if I’d had the truth prepared, it wouldn’t have mattered. Somehow, that just makes me feel even worse, as if I’m trying to pin the blame on an undeserving victim.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and realize I’ve been trying to brush my teeth for the past ten minutes. I move the toothbrush around in some half-hearted circles, and then give up. It’s not like I have anyone to impress these days, anyways. Suddenly, a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Heyyyy Laurie!”
I nearly jump out of my skin as Rachel slides on the hardwood floor in her socks and skids to a stop outside of the bathroom door. She aims two finger-guns at me, her smile wide.
“I learned a new TikTok dance!” my buddy proclaims with obvious glee. “Want to see?”
Truthfully, I would rather throw myself onto the ground and die.
“Sure.”
Playing the attentive audience, I sit down on our battered couch in the living room, and gesture at her to begin. But as my best friend whirls and twirls and twerks around, I’m unable to focus. The question is still ringing in my ears and buzzing around like a fly I’m unable to swat. All I want is for it to be silent, and for everything to be silent frankly. I’ve never been this depressed before. I’ve never felt so alone, so guilty, nor so ashamed.
“Are you even watching?” Rachel demands, freezing in the middle of a dance move with her arms flung over her head.
I nod dutifully.
She sighs. “No, you’re not. Here.” She walks over to the cat tree, picks up a sleeping Toodles, who meows reproachfully, and sets him in my lap. He eyes me in confusion, and then settles himself comfortably on my thighs and falls back asleep. I stroke his head with my finger, from the crown down to his sweet little pink nose. It makes me feel a little better, but only marginally.
“Did that help?” Rach asks, sitting on the floor across from me.
“A little.”
“No, it didn’t,” Rachel says. Her brown eyes are full of warmth and concern, and kind of make me want to cry, so I try to avoid her gaze. “Hey,” my friend says softly. “Look at me, okay?”
I do, and this time, my sniffle’s audible.
“Are you alright?”
I shake my head no.
“Can I help?”
I shake my head no again.
“Okay. That makes sense, but I want you to know that I’m here for you.”
I wince. The last person who said that to me immediately kicked me out of his home, and out of his life, forever. The thought immediately brings a gray cloud back down.
But my bestie’s different. Rachel’s been in my life for years now, and despite our arguments and idiotic fights, I know that she would never abandon me. For better or for worse, we’re stuck with each other, the way true friends are supposed to be. She senses my change in mood and tilts her head to one side.
“Want to talk to me about what’s in your head?”
I sigh, petting Toodles as he purrs dreamily in his sleep. “It’s nothing new,” I sigh. “Just the same old shit. ‘What else could I have said?’ ‘What could I have done?’ ‘Why did I even lie in the first place?’”
“Those are impossible questions to answer,” Rachel consoles. “You’re just torturing yourself if you keep ruminating and letting them spin around in your head rent-free.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you picking up lessons from your therapist?”
She laughs. “Maybe. But am I wrong?”
I sigh again, leaning back into the couch. “No. But I don’t know how to make them go away. Tate meant so much to me, Rachel. I think… I think…” I let out a breath, closing my eyes, unable to even look at her. “I think I was falling in love with him.”
Rachel gets up and sits next to me on the sofa. I lean my head onto her shoulder and she slings an arm around my shoulders.
“I know,” she says quietly. “But it’s okay, honey. You’ll move on eventually. This will all be in the rear-view mirror someday, I promise.”
But I’m not convinced. Life isn’t rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, like I believed as a child. Life, sometimes, punches you in the gut, kicks you in the teeth, and leaves you squirming and helpless on the floor. There have to be instances in which things don’t just magically get better, and I think this might be one of them.
Then, I think of Marla. I see her every weekend now at the shelter. Against all odds, I still manage to drag myself there because I would feel even worse if I didn’t, and suddenly, guilt comes over me. Marla’s a woman who lost everything: her husband, her job, and, eventually, her home. However, she’s still one of the kindest, most positive, most badass people I’ve ever met. So many people in the homeless community are like that: strong, powerful, and utterly unwilling to let their horrific circumstances dictate their happiness. Why can’t I be like that?
Suddenly, I realize I’ve been utter moron. Sure, my feelings are valid, and it’s okay that I’m sad. But if people can have their whole lives turned upside-down and keep moving on, I can get over some dude dumping me, right?
I’m feeling marginally better when suddenly, my stomach gurgles. I narrow my brows. Did I eat something weird? I have been feeling a little queasy the past few days, on and off, but nothing worth noting. I hope I don’t have a stomach bug.
Or maybe…
“Oh, God.” I frantically scoop Toodles off my lap and dump him into Rachel’s. Clutching my hand to my abdomen, I sprint to the bathroom and manage to close the door halfway before I empty my stomach’s contents into the toilet. My throat immediately feels raw, and my tongue is reminiscent of sandpaper. I retch several times, my entire body seizing until my stomach cramps in on itself. Then, when things seem to have calmed down, I lean my forehead against the cool toilet lid, breathing hard.
“Laurie?” Rachel knocks gently on the door. “You okay, buddy?”
I nod, and then realize she can’t see me. “Yeah, I think so,” I say.
“Can I come in?” When I don’t respond, she pushes the door open and leans into the room, looking at me with concern. I flush the toilet so that she doesn’t have to see anything gross, but I still don’t have energy to do much else. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and my stomach churns again uncomfortably.
“Laurie…” Rachel whispers, and I burst into tears.
“I know!” I cry. “I know. But, oh, God, what am I going to do if I’m pregnant?”
I weep in silence for a while, still flung dramatically over the toilet, like a Disney princess who’s made one too many bad decisions.
“Laurie,” Rachel says after a while, “you have to tell him. You haven’t spoken to Tate in months, and I know you didn’t part on the best of terms, but he deserves to know.”
“But I lied to him about so many things!” I cry. “I don’t think he’s going to forgive me just because I’m pregnant.”
“He deserves to know, no matter what,” Rach reiterates in a gentle tone. “It might not be the dramatic make-up that you’re hoping for, but maybe he’ll still want to be involved with your child. His child. You haven’t slept with anyone else, right?”
I snort, despite myself. I’ve barely been able to pull myself out of bed, let alone invite someone else into it.
“Well, there you go,” Rachel says gently. “Then it has to be his. And you’re obviously in love with him, and it’s not like what you did was that bad. Yes, you lied to him, but it’s for a good reason: you didn’t want to be treated like a rich girl for once. Is that so bad? You wanted the chance for someone to get to know the real you, and not as Miss Moneybags. It just happened to be in a very unusual way. Right?”
I nod silently.
“Come on, Laurie,” Rachel says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “Go talk to him. Who knows what will happen?”
My shoulders slump.
“He’ll reject me, that’s what. He’ll tell me to go away and never come back, not to mention throw in a few epithets. I’m sure of it.”
“Laurie,” Rach says in a reasonable tone. “You know that’s not going to happen. This is his child. Plus, the alternative is that your baby never knows its father. You don’t want that, do you?”
Pain stabs my heart and tears spring to my eyes once more. But my friend is right, and I take a deep, shuddering breath before raising my head from the toilet.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll talk to him then.”