20. Selena

Idrop my phone in my lap and cover my face with my hands as I shake my head. The three of them are going to be the death of me.

There was an instant attraction when I met each of them. Granted, at the time I thought Jay was Zeke, but there was still a draw to him. How I didn't see the differences between the two of them is still a mystery.

In a perfect world, I'd be with them, all three of them, if they would have me because I can't choose.

But fate weaved a nasty web, connecting our lives through family, adding a roadblock that I don't see a detour around.

My hands find their way to my belly, rubbing it. Two small lives grow inside of me and I don't know what to do.

Telling this bombshell of news could have devastating results. I could rip a family apart. Mom would be pissed, but it's the relationship between Abel and his sons that I'm more worried about.

Mom never cared for me, and since Dad died, it's been a relationship of necessity, meaning she only contacted me when it benefited her. Sometimes I wonder if she regrets having me. If I kept her from the life she wanted.

My phone rings and I pick it up, seeing Mom's name flash on the screen.

Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

Sliding the icon up, I answer and place it on speakerphone.

"Hey Mom."

"Selena, you sound horrible," her nasally voice barks out. I can already see the way her nose is scrunching up in disdain, like she might catch something. Don't worry, Mom, you can't catch what I have.

"Well, I'm sick. What do you want?"

"That's a fine way to talk to your mother. Do I have to want something to talk to you?"

You normally do, is what I want to say, but I don't.

"No Mom, you don't. What do I owe the joy of this call to, then?"

"I was seeing if you were ready to apologize for the way you behaved at dinner. You and that boyfriend of yours? Abel wants to make Sunday family dinners a thing, but I don't want any more of the abuse you subjected me to at the last one."

"I have nothing to apologize for, Mom. Your memory is very warped about that dinner, as I'm the one that always bears the brunt of your verbal abuse. I have no desire to go to a family dinner where I'll be treated that way again."

I want to scream and it's taking everything in me not to. Anger builds inside me, pushing all the nausea to the side. How dare she make me out to be the villain.

"Selena, are you listening to me?"

Shit, I totally zoned out. I didn't even realize she was talking. That she responded to me.

"Yeah, and again, I'm not apologizing. So if that takes me out of the family dinners, then oh well. Since Dad's death, I've been a last thought to you. Enjoy your new family. May they make you prouder than I did."

Nausea consumes me again, overshadowing the anger, and I end the call, not caring that Mom is still talking. Jumping up as fast as I can, I rush to the bathroom, tripping over my own feet and crashing into the wall. I extend my arm out, bracing myself as pain shoots up it.

Great, Selena. Let's hurt yourself on top of everything. Unlike the other times, I'm not so lucky this one. Vomit spews from my mouth, half of it making it in the toilet while the other lands on the floor.

Gross!

Now I have to clean it up.

Once I no longer feel like I'm going to puke my insides out, I head to the kitchen and pull a roll of paper towels from the pantry to clean up the mess.

Why couldn't I have a mother who loves me? Who's proud of me and the accomplishments I've made? No, I get the mother who tells me what a disappointment I am and how fat I am, even though I'm far from it. Yeah, my weight fluctuates, but I'm nowhere near what's considered overweight. And if I was, who fucking cares?

When I've gotten everything cleaned up, I pull the trash bag out of the can and tie it up, making sure to put it in the trashcan in the kitchen. I'll take it out tomorrow. If the guys stop by, maybe I can get them to take it down for me, so I don't have to walk up and down the stairs.

I'm so over all the repairs that need to be done in this building. Sam and I had already talked about going to take some tours of some complexes when he gets back. Jose is trying to convince me of the advantages of owning a home, especially with the babies on the way.

I've put off moving for almost two years. When the new owners took over the building, it went to shit. Nothing gets fixed, and it's hard as hell to even get someone on the phone. They have no problem taking my money every month, though. That check is cashed before the ink dries.

I flip the switch to turn on the kitchen light and it flickers, before finally staying on. Suddenly my stomach growls, so I open the fridge and pull the leftover soup out.

I set it in the microwave, putting the timer on four minutes, and pull the drawer out to get a spoon.

Just before the time is up, the microwave sparks and makes a god-awful sound. I hit stop.

Great, now I need a new microwave. I'll need one to warm the babies' bottles in the middle of the night. Or will I breastfeed? Fuck, what if they want to eat at the same time? How in the hell will I do that?

My mind immediately imagines breastfeeding two children. I cup my breasts with my hands, mourning what they'll look like after two children. Not to mention when am I going to sleep?

How am I going to raise these babies on my own? I know Sam and Jose plan to help, but I hate imposing on them. My chest tightens and my palms get sweaty at the thought of keeping my babies from their biological father, too. What if something medically is wrong with them, and they need bone marrow or something from their father? What do I do?

Stop Selena. You're going to go mad with these thoughts. Just calm down. There's time to figure everything out—you just found out. Not to mention they may not want to be a father and would rather keep it a secret.

I get a dishtowel, using it to cradle the hot bowl in my hand, and head to the living room. A little food and a nap are all I need.

I haven't been to a bonfire in years.

Roasting marshmallows is one of my favorite things to do. What's better than s'mores on a crisp fall night? Dad and I loved them so much, we would even add Reese"s Peanut Butter Cups to them.

The fire crackles in front of me, the flames a beautiful golden color with a red hue. But something isn't right. I wasn't at a bonfire. Was I?

I was talking to Sam, and then I climbed into bed. How did I get here?

The flames draw me in, hypnotizing me with their warmth.

"Selena," a familiar deep voice calls.

"Dad, is that you? Where are you? I can"t see you."

A haze clouds my vision, and my chest becomes heavy. It's getting hard to breathe.

"Dad," I call again as I erupt in a coughing fit.

"Selena, you need to get out."

Something's wrong, but what?

Why's it so hard to breathe? My chest feels so heavy and my breathing is wheezy. Am I getting sicker? Is it a real cold this time and not just morning sickness?

"Selena, you need to get out, baby," Dad's voice says again.

"Dad? I miss you. Where are you?"

I'd give anything just to see him one more time, even if it is unrealistic.

"Selena. I need you to wake up now!"

His words smack into me like a ton of bricks, and I shoot up in bed. My body is covered in sweat, and the room is full of smoke. It's so thick I can barely see.

Shit! There's a fire. I need to get out.

My mind tries to remember the safety drill we had in elementary school about what to do during a fire.

I fumble with the comforter until I find my phone. I need to call 911. When I pick it up, my heart starts racing as panic sets in.

It's dead. I never charged it. Fuck! What do I do?

I need to get out of here. Down the stairs and out of the building to safety.

Come on, Selena, you can do this. Dad didn't wake you from sleep to not survive.

I scramble out of bed and leave the room, moving as fast as I can without becoming sick. You're supposed to get down low and cover your mouth. Yes, that"s it. I rush to the bathroom, grab a washcloth, and run it under water, covering my nose and mouth.

It helps some, but I need to get out of here.

I sprint to the front door, not caring about crawling, as it would take too long.

Opening it, I rush out into the hallway, and no one is in sight.

I need to warn people. What if they're sleeping? Why didn't the fucking fire alarms go off? I hurry down the hallway, screaming for everyone to get up, beating on the doors. There's only four of us on this floor. No one answers until I get to Mrs. Hinkley's door. She answers, as frantic as I am.

"What's going on?" she asks, her eyes wide.

"There's a fire and we need to get out."

I take her hand in mine and head toward the stairs. We don't even make it to them before we see the flames. The stairwell is engulfed in fire and it's our only way out.

"What are we going to do? How are we getting out?" she cries.

"Your phone! We need to call 911 for help," I tell her as we turn around and head back to her apartment.

When we get to her door, I take hold of the handle and turn, but it doesn't budge. I push hard, but can"t get the door to open.

"What's wrong?" She wheezes as she breathes, her coughing becoming worse.

"It won't open. Come on, we need to move." I head back to my apartment. Maybe I can plug the phone in and get a little bit of charge.

Someone has already called the fire department, right?

I shut the door behind us, rushing to the kitchen and getting as many dishtowels as I can and soaking them, placing them at the bottom of the door to try to keep out as much smoke as I can.

"We can go to my bedroom. I can open the window and call for help," I tell her as I gesture for her to follow.

"Selena, we're going to die in here," Mrs. Hinkley cries as she stumbles, passing out on the floor.

No, this can't be happening. Rushing over to her, I grip her under her arms and begin dragging her down the hallway. I need to get to my bedroom and plug my phone in. I need to let someone know we're still in the building.

For a small lady, she's heavy as hell. It doesn't help that I have no strength left in me.

I have to keep moving, though. I can't let this be the end. My babies need to live.

After what feels like an eternity, I make it to the bedroom and shut the door, leaving Mrs. Hinkley on the floor. I place my fingers on her neck, checking for a pulse.

She has one.

I pick up my phone and plug it in.

What's next? It needs a minute to charge.

Towels. I go to the bathroom and turn on the tub, letting it fill with water.

We can submerge ourselves in it if the fire makes its way to us.

Soaking towels in the water, I rush and put them at the base of the bedroom door, not even caring they're sopping wet.

Call 911. That's next.

Picking up my phone, I power it on, praying I can get out the message.

Yes! There's a small charge. Please let that be enough.

I hit the three numbers and press send.

"911, what's your emergency?"

Loud popping and snapping sounds come from the living room, or maybe the hallway in front of my apartment door, and I flinch.

"My building's on fire and me and my neighbor are trapped in my apartment on the fourth floor."

"Your name and address?"

I hear a crash from my kitchen, almost like my dishes are hitting the floor. The smell of smoke is stronger, despite the towels I placed at the bottom of the door. The air seems thicker, even though I can't see anything different, and I cough as I try to answer.

"It's Sel—"

Another cough takes over before my chest tightens and I suddenly can't breathe. I drop to my knees as I hear someone calling out, but it's like I'm in a tunnel. This isn't right; the smoke isn't in my room yet. It doesn't feel hotter in here. As I fall to my side, I can see the towels are still wet before I blink.

With my head on the floor, I feel the tear roll down from the corner of my eye over the bridge of my nose.

I'm so sorry, my sweet babies.

It's my last thought as my vision becomes spotty before the room goes black.