My mind loops the many disasters from last night, all of which are impossible to mediate from my current hiding spot in bed. I kick my legs out of the fluffy comforter and grab my robe, scrolling through my text conversation from yesterday with Mr. Becker, rereading it for the hundredth time, trying to figure out how to handle it.
Mr. Becker
Me
Mr. Becker
I tried to call him earlier this morning, twice, but he didn’t answer. So I sent this:
Me
But it’s been crickets ever since. I haven’t told August yet because honestly, I’m too annoyed to talk to him right now.
Once Bentley got his phone back, he asked if I wanted to chat, but I’ve yet to take him up on it. We never fully resolved our tiff from last night, but we both seem to have silently agreed that there are bigger problems afoot than Bentley’s locker-room bragging, which honestly has nothing to do with me or our relationship. He assured me he never spoke about me that way, and I recognize that while it sounds bad, it’s no worse than the way I’ve critiqued some of my dates’ kissing styles with August. My pride was stung, and I was trying so hard to micromanage the interaction between Bentley and August that I got my back up. But once I took a breath, I could see the sense in the fact that everyone talks to their friends about relationships and hookups and that those conversations don’t always sound admirable when repeated out of context.
I make my way to the top of the stairs, listening for my parents and debating going down at all. I know I can’t live in my room forever, but I also don’t think I can handle their disappointment.
When the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls wafts up to me, my stomach rumbles and I give in, grabbing the railing.
“Mom? Dad?” I say when I reach the first floor.
“Valentine,” Mom replies from the living room, where she holds a cup of steaming tea on the couch next to my dad.
I drag my sorry self into the room, plop down in the armchair, and pull my knees up under my chin.
Dad puts down his book.
Mom blows on her tea. “I think it’s time we had a talk. I’d like to hear that explanation now.”
I nod against my knees, considering where to begin and concluding the only way for them to understand is to start at the beginning.
“I didn’t know what to do after Des passed,” I start, telling them all about August shutting down and not being able to reach him, about my plan for Summer Love and what I thought it might do for him. How relieved I was when it worked and how dedicated I’ve been ever since.
“And you believe this business you started has been cathartic for him?” Mom asks, not dropping the parental tone that clearly distinguishes her as alpha.
“I really do,” I say. “And so many other people. We’ve helped a lot of families and friend groups. Until last night, that is . . . and well, you saw what happened.”
“Yes, we did. And so did all my colleagues,” Dad says.
“I’m really sorry, Dad,” I say a little pathetically. “I know I screwed up. I know how important last night was to you both.”
“There’s also the matter of the press,” he adds.
I hug my knees a little tighter. In the wake of everything that happened, I’d actually forgotten about the reporters who were there.
“I imagine we’ll be seeing coverage in the next couple hours, and after the scene you caused, I’d be shocked if your name wasn’t present,” he continues.
I wince. “But you’ll—”
“No,” he says. “You’re eighteen. I cannot retract your name.”
I yank my phone off the coffee table, about to do a panicked search, but Mom gives me a look that has me drop it again. Even if the press got pictures, there’s no way they could surmise anything about Summer Love. Right? Right. All they’d have seen is a fight and some drama—maybe one or two sentences on young love gone awry?
“And then there’s the lying,” Mom continues, and her words snap me back to the conversation.
“That’s not who we raised you to be,” Dad says.
This stings. Maybe because I don’t think of myself as a liar or because I convinced myself that my reasons outweighed my wrongdoing. “I know,” is all I say.
“Two years . . .” Mom says.
“How are we supposed to trust you going forward?” Dad asks.
And while maybe this is a legitimate question, it also upsets me. I said I was sorry. I feel terrible. But I’m still Valentine, their daughter; they know me. Before I can stop myself, I say, “The same way I trust you two even though you’ve clearly been keeping something from me.”
They momentarily glance at each other. The surprised look on their faces tells me I’m right, but the quiet that follows is way more uncomfortable than I’d have imagined.
Mom takes another sip of tea. But all she says is, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat, looking from my mom to my dad, but he’s clearly deferring to her on this one.
“Your father and I will discuss your punishment,” Mom continues. “We’ll let you know what we think is appropriate.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Mom confirms.
“But what about—”
Dad cuts me off. “That’s not a discussion for today.”
I drop my knees from my chest, my bare feet hitting the soft carpet, feeling frustrated about my unknowable punishment, their nonanswer, and the five thousand messes in my life right now. “So I have to be honest, but you don’t?”
“Valentine,” Dad says, his tone a warning.
Mom shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Which is an anxiety-inducing answer and now makes leaving it alone impossible. “No, I don’t. What I do know is that you two have been weird for weeks.”
They’re both silent.
“Great. Silence. Not hypocritical at all.”
“Valentine Sharma,” Dad snaps, and I know I’ve pushed it too far. “You’ve just lost the privileges to your phone.”
I can feel myself spiraling, anger and upset mixing in such a way that I’m not fully in control. I look at Mom. Bentley’s comment about couples therapy and an affair blares in my thoughts. “Punish me however you want, but I’m right. Be upset about my lying, but also be upset about the example you set.”
Both their eyes widen in matching expressions of shock. And the quiet that follows is so tense that it’s hard to breathe. We sit there for so long that I’m certain my punishment will last until the end of summer.
I shift in the armchair.
“I’m pregnant,” Mom says, and I freeze.
Then all at once I’m moving, walking toward her even though I don’t remember getting up. “What?!? But you’re . . . That’s not possible.” I press my hands into my temples, physically incapable of computing. I’m eighteen. She’s forty-six, and besides which, her fertility issues were so severe in her twenties that after she had me, the doctor said she’d never get pregnant again. They went to specialists in Boston, invested three years and most of their savings in treatments, all for nothing.
Mom opens her mouth, but I cut her off, flying onto the couch next to her. “This is a miracle—”
“Valentine, wait,” she says, and her tone stops my hand on its way to her belly. “We don’t know yet if everything is . . . We didn’t want to tell you until we were sure.”
My heart punches my ribs. “Sure of what?”
It’s Dad who answers. “The doctors aren’t convinced there won’t be complications,” he explains, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “We’ve had some testing done, and we’re waiting on results.”
I pull back, looking at them and recognizing the fear of loss. “I don’t understand.” But I do understand. After Des passed, I asked Mom why she never had another child. That’s when she told me about the endless hormones and the two miscarriages.
Mom presses her lips together. “We’ll know more next week.”
And while that’s not really an answer, I recognize that she can’t bring herself to say more. That the weirdness between my parents wasn’t an impending divorce but fear of being too hopeful—a pregnancy she didn’t expect, one she doesn’t know if her body will allow.
“Now,” Dad says, taking a breath and confiscating my phone from the coffee table, “breakfast?”
While I have a million questions, I know he’s changing the subject for her. That she literally can’t talk about this anymore.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, my voice small.
Dad goes to the kitchen, and Mom heads upstairs with her tea. But I sit there on the couch, dumbfounded and unsure, feeling guilty I went on the offensive and hurt they didn’t tell me sooner. I fall back into the cushions, pressing my palms over my eyes.
Please, please let my mom and the baby be okay.