Three minutes. I tapped the start button on my phone’s timer.
The night I made him propose, Jake laid on his side in bed and twirled a piece of my hair through his fingers as he told me all about the proposal I ruined. He had saved up for months for the ring, an emerald because, as he said, even it could never compete with my green eyes. That was what he first noticed about me, besides the fact that a pervy senior was groping me. He told me it took everything in his power not to stare at them. He couldn’t figure out if they were real or if I was just shitting everyone with contacts. He figured they must be mine, because, according to him, they were audacious and haunting, like me.
Two minutes left.
He had tickets to An Ideal Husband at that fancy theatre in Ashland. Cute, right? I had read the script and seen the movie, but this would be my first time seeing it in person. We would still go in June; he just wouldn’t propose after.
We hadn’t picked a date. I liked the idea of getting married before I went off to Oregon State in the fall, but that gave us little time to pull together a wedding. We were dirt poor, too, and I wondered if his parents would foot the bill since I wasn’t exactly speaking to my mom. Maybe eloping would be more our style anyway.
One minute left.
We might as well just elope. We were already living together. And I had already learned more about Jake this past month than I had in our two and a half years of dating.
First, he left dirty washcloths in the shallow bathroom sink—not in the tub or laundry room. The sink. So I was always spitting toothpaste out on a mildewy pile of rags. Why, Jake?
Second, if he ran out of body wash, he’d just use shampoo instead of buying more. Then, when he ran out of shampoo, he’d use hand soap. I didn’t wait to find out what he’d use once that ran out.
Third, he had trouble falling asleep unless we had sex right before bed or he had Netflix on. And, since Netflix kept me awake, he was sweet enough to sacrifice that option. Those few nights we were chaste, he would lie awake on his back, brushing his hands through his hair and staring at the ceiling. Then, like a kid at a sleepover, he would whisper, “Sawyer, are you awake?”
I would grunt to confirm as his fingers slid so gently up my back it tickled.
Then I’d get to hear whatever thought was bouncing around his head. “We should take the motorcycle down the coast of California this summer. Maybe to the Bay Area? Then to Santa Barbara and San Diego? What do you think?” Or, “My trainer says I need to run more, but I just don’t know if it’s worth it on my knee, with that old injury, you know?” Or, “What are you going to major in next year? I know you think math is more practical, but think how much you’d get to read if you majored in English or something? You know your dad would love it if you did English.” Or, “Do you ever want to have kids? I think three would be cool.”
Then we’d be up for another hour, and I’d doze off in second period American Government the next day.
My phone buzzed. Time was up.
I was already on my knees with my head hanging over the toilet as the timer ticked off the passing seconds. All I knew was that I was sick. And late. My arms, shaky and weak from the nausea, pushed me off the toilet seat so I could see the pregnancy test on the counter to my right.
Two pink lines.
I grabbed it and peered closer just to make sure. Positive.
Pregnant.
It didn’t sink in, especially when all I wanted in that moment, perhaps more than I wanted anything else, was to throw up. My body, that stubborn bitch, wouldn’t cooperate. So I just let my face hover over the toilet, watching the still, clear water in it in case my will beat her.
I tried to think while I waited to hurl.
First, I needed to count. When was my last period? During spring break? So, a month and a half ago? Before I moved in with Jake, right? My stash of tampons under the bathroom sink was untouched, so definitely before then. How far along would that make me?
Second, how did this happen? Jake and I were so careful; we used condoms every time. Maybe I was just crazy fertile like my mom. My conception had been a condom failure. I guessed it happened sometimes.
Third, would my scholarships still be good if I postponed a year or took a semester off to have the baby?
Fourth, could I be any more of a small-town cliché—
Wait. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
Jeff hadn’t used a condom.
I sat back against the bathtub, my head in my hands and that damn plastic stick pinned between my fingers.
Jeff’s baby was growing inside me.
That was enough to finally make me barf. I angry hurled into the bowl, the kind of puking that popped the capillaries in my cheeks and eyelids. I flushed the toilet and sat back on the floor, my face clammy and sweaty, my mouth bitter with sickness.
I heard a knock.
“Sawyer? You okay?” Jake asked from outside the door.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Fine.” What was I supposed to tell Jake? He had done everything in his power not to murder my stepdad. I wasn’t sure anything would stop him now.
“Are you sick?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Can I come in?”
“You want to see me puking?”
He laughed. “Can I get you anything?”
A time machine would be wonderful, thank you.
“No,” I moaned again. I shoved the pregnancy test back in the box, then the box into the pouch pocket of my pullover hoodie. From the floor, I reached for the door to crack it open. “I need to run to the store. Do you need anything?”
“No.” He stared down at my pitiful position on the linoleum. “Let me do that. You should lie down. What do you need?”
“Ginger ale, please.”
“Sure, babe.” He squatted in front of me to kiss my forehead. “Do you want me to help you into bed or something?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay here.”
I waited until I heard his motorcycle drive out of earshot before making my way down the stairs. I hunched over my tightening gut through the garage to the side yard to dispose of my little secret in the outside trash can, even burying it underneath a couple of bags of trash just to be safe. After, I went inside and trudged up the stairs to bed.
It wasn’t until my head felt the relief of the soft pillow and the weight of the covers over me that I realized how tired I was. Exhausted. I wanted to just huddle there and sleep—wake up to find none of this had happened. If only life were that gentle. But it wasn’t. It was harsh, unrelenting, and cruel, and I had to do something to get Jeff’s spawn the hell out of me.
I searched for the nearest Planned Parenthood on my phone. Seventy-five miles away for one that offered abortions. Great. How was I supposed to drive the three hours back from Ashland after an abortion? I scanned their site further. Abortion pill. Okay, that could work. I could just bring it home and take it. No big deal. Okay, I clicked on the tab titled, “What can I expect if I take the abortion pill?” I scanned the long list of symptoms on the page. Yikes. That seemed miserable. Jake would find out. Unless I stayed with Tatum. Or in a hotel in Ashland. There had to be a way.
I heard the front door creak open, and Jake walk up the stairs. I blackened my phone and shoved it under the pillow. He knocked on the already-open door. “How are you feeling?”
“Not much better.” He put a cold twenty-ounce bottle of ginger ale on the bedside table, just in my line of site. I envied the drops of condensation sliding down the icy plastic, needing that coolness on my forehead, on the nape of my sweaty neck. The nausea returned with Jake’s presence and the flare of panic he induced in me. What was I going to tell him? What would he do if he found out I hid an abortion from him? Should I just tell him? No, that was stupid. I was just sick. That was all he needed to know.
He pushed the hair back from my cheek. “Babe, you look awful.” When he said that, I realized I was still hunkered around my abdomen with my eyes shut. “You don’t feel warm, so I doubt you have a fever…”
I felt my fingers for my ring and twisted it around. Jake and I didn’t have secrets, except a few he let me keep about my past. This wasn’t a good one to start with. I didn’t think I could bear living with it for the rest of my life. So, I just blurted out a pathetic, “I’m pregnant.”
Jake’s eyes widened, the brown in them melting almost to liquid. He ran his hand over his face, then let it cover his mouth as he stared at me. A few seconds passed. Was he going to say something? Anything?
“But—” I started.
He interrupted, “Holy shit.” He dropped his hand from his chin. “We’re having a baby?” His voice was soft—scared and shocked and full of hope. I could tell his mind was racing like mine, but his was over the next few years instead of just the next couple of days.
“Jake…” I shook my head and cringed.
“What’s wrong? Is it college? We’ll figure it out so you can—”
“No, Jake.” I raised my voice. “It’s not—” I took a deep breath. “I think it’s Jeff’s.”
He crossed his arms and didn’t hesitate to object. “No, no. It’s not Jeff’s. No way. You and I have sex all the time, and he—” Jake squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “No.” He dropped his hands to his thighs with a clap. “It’s mine. I’m sure of it.”
Ah, that irritating optimism of the unbroken. It was hard to argue with.
“Okay, fine. That’s a nice thought, but what if it’s not?”
“There’s no ‘if’—”
“Jake!”
“Fine.” He sat on the edge of the bed, and then leaned his hand on the other side of my hips. “I’d never ask you to give up your baby. I’ll be there if you keep it. For all of it. I’ll change diapers and wake up in the middle of the night and rock it to sleep. I can sell my bike to help us pay for the baby stuff we’ll need. Don’t they need a lot of stuff?” he asked as if I knew more than he did. “Look, it’s mine even if it’s not, okay? But…” he breathed. “If that’s too hard for you, I totally understand. We can find a family or an agency or—I don’t know how it all works, but I can learn. If you don’t want to deal with any of it, I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”
I bit my lip. “Jake, I can’t do eight more months of this.”
His face fell. “Sawyer, no.” It was a plea, but it was firm. It was obvious in that moment he would hold his ground.
I sat up. “Think for a second, please! You really think we’ll be able to give this baby up without Jeff knowing? Without him fighting for custody?”
“You think any judge in their right mind would give him cust—”
“Yes! He’s charming. Everyone gives him the benefit of the doubt. There’s no proof he raped me. They’ll just have proof it’s his.”
“If it’s his.”
“It’s his. Having this baby could mean being stuck with Jeff for the rest of my life.”
“Sawyer, you’re being totally irrational. That’s not going to happen.”
“And what if he abuses her, too? I’m not putting my kid through that.”
“So it’s better to kill her?”
“Rather than her grow up with Jeff as her dad, yes.”
Jake stroked my waist. “Babe, I know you’ve been through hell—”
“You don’t know anything about hell.”
“Then tell me!”
“I’ve told you enough for you to be on my side. I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this.”
“I’m just asking you to do what your parents did for you.”
“What?”
“Seriously, Sawyer, you of all people should know better! You were a condom accident, right?”
“So?”
“So, first, you know they happen. You know it could be mine. And if it is, I get a say. Second, your dad gave up everything to be your dad. I bet he never even thought about aborting you, but they could have. They were younger than us.”
“My dad? Really, Jake?”
“It’s not an option.” He crossed his arms across his chest again. “I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion,” he said with a flicking shrug of his shoulders.
“I can’t believe you’re making me keep a baby from a rape that was your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You said…” Cue Jake imitation. “‘Oh, babe, stay in town. Finish high school. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.’ You really fucked that one up.”
“How is it my fault that you refused to move in with me in February, that you didn’t go to my fight, or that you got shitfaced at that party?”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?”
His whole face tightened with regret, his eyes and mouth closing as he dragged his hand from forehead to chin. “Of course not. You don’t think I feel awful I didn’t stop this? But I couldn’t.”
I stared down at my hands a long time before whispering, “I know.” After a quivering inhale, I added, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not the baby’s fault, either.” He took my hand in his. “Please, Sawyer, please don’t do this.”
“I can’t have another reminder of that night. Or of those two years.”
“You think killing it is going to make you forget?” He brushed my hair behind my shoulder. “You have a chance to make something beautiful out of this horrible thing that happened to you. Please, babe, take it.”
I’d forgotten what it felt like—loneliness. But it was the only thing I was guaranteed as I lay in the Ashland motel bleeding.
Childless.
What a strange feeling to regret something even as I did it—the sheer denial that masked itself as courage, the rush of relief once the decision was final, and the cavernous sorrow that sank in within the hour.
Part of me didn’t believe it was real. I was gone. Jake probably got home from training a couple of hours ago and found his room cleared of my stuff, my existence erased except the emerald ring I left on his nightstand, my phone in his kitchen trash, and a note saying, “I love you, but I can’t keep it.”
We had done nothing but fight for two weeks, spending our nights silent in the same bed, me making a Plan B that excluded him, his thoughts shut away. It made me feel better thinking he probably expected I’d leave the day after graduation—better as in it felt better to stand in fire for four seconds than for five.