I GUESS IT WAS ONLY a matter of time until Dallas showed up at my house. And here he is, sitting on the porch, holding flowers. It’s not the flowers that make me want to curl into a ball and cry. It’s his face, open and earnest, more than I deserve after I’ve been anything but.
“Sorry to be a stalker,” he says. “But you wouldn’t talk to me. I’m not mad about—you know, Elle. I’m just—I wish you would have let me be there for you.” He stands up.
He wasn’t there, because he didn’t know about it. But Tabby knew, and she was there. The morning of, she met me at my house after Mom left for work. She noticed me shivering and took off her own sweatshirt—Mark’s Princeton one—and slipped it over my tank top, pulling my arms through the sleeves like I was a small child. I felt as lost and helpless as one.
When we got to the clinic, I pulled up the hood.
It’s me in the photo, the dark-haired girl in the Princeton sweatshirt. Tabby let me out and went to park the car, since traffic made us late, and it was an appointment I didn’t want to miss. I have no idea who took that photo, but everyone assumed it was Tabby, hair spilling out of the orange hood. And when the photo appeared online—it was her idea to let everyone believe that.
“Let them judge me,” she said. “Let them think whatever they want about me. You deserve better.”
So it became Tabby’s baby. Tabby’s abortion. Tabby’s judgment. She was a martyr, all in the name of our friendship. I should have been grateful. I should still be grateful. But a tiny splinter of me resents her, because it’s always all about Tabby. She has this way of making everything about herself, even a problem that wasn’t hers to solve.
But Dallas—he knew it was me the whole time. That first text he sent—I’d recognize you anywhere, why didn’t you let me be there? I was angry. He made it all about him, just like Tabby made it about her. And it was about me. My body, which suddenly felt foreign to me.
I shouldn’t have let Tabby step into my life and lie for me. She was upset that I didn’t tell her about Dallas—she thought we made out sometimes, but that I was still a virgin. Why didn’t you tell me? That was the first thing she said, all hurt—do you see, how she makes things all about her?
I’m sick of people and their constant why didn’t you. I’m sick of not having an answer. Maybe I wanted a slice of my life to be private from Tabby. Then she stepped in and shouldered my pain and look what happened. I made the choice not to have a baby. I made Tabby swear not to tell anyone, and she didn’t. Not even Mark, when he asked, If it wasn’t you, who was it? She let the secret fester, the infection sear the skin of their relationship. If I had just told everyone it was me, maybe a lot of things would have been different.
I’ve spent so much time thinking I don’t deserve anything good. I’ve wanted what I couldn’t have. I wanted my best friend’s boyfriend, and when I couldn’t have him, I made sure she couldn’t either. But here, closing the gap between me and Dallas, I just want to be hugged. I just want someone to love me anyway.
His mouth finds my hair. “I’m not going anywhere, unless you want me to.”
And in this moment, I don’t.