Chapter 3

I video-called my sister the next day. I didn't bother waking up until noon, so it was around eight in the evening for her.

She answered on the third ring. I saw immediately she wasn't home, which meant our conversation would be short. I flashed a weak smile and waved to hide my disappointment.

Addie sat in a grassy field full of people. I was sure, if she moved the camera, she would be surrounded by her friends and boyfriend. There was a blush on her cheeks and her hair seemed redder than usual.

"How are you feeling?" She asked seriously, as if she wasn't busy.

"Like shit," I admitted. I hoped she couldn't hear the tremble in my voice. Addie frowned. "I'm sorry I didn't call," I continued. "It was a hectic few days, and I couldn't believe it was happening."

"I'm sorry, Indy. I know you wanted that baby," Addie said.

"I did," I whispered. My eyes blurred with tears before I shook my head, forcing myself to perk up. "Tell me something good. Tell me about Paris."

My sister visibly stiffened and swallowed, glancing at someone off-camera. Her smile was strained. "Paris is… Paris. Everything's great."

"That's it?" I rasped.

Addie shrugged and shook her head. There was something sad in her eyes. "I've been having a hard time adjusting lately, that's all. I'm more tired than usual."

I sucked in a breath. "That boyfriend of yours giving you a hard time?" It was meant to be a joke, but it came out strangled and fell flat.

Addie's smile was fleeting. She glanced off-camera again, likely reassuring her boyfriend, Holland, that I was joking. The urge to beg for a moment alone with my sister bubbled inside me. She spoke again before I could. "Of course not. Things are great between us. Look, I'm out with friends, can I call you back later?"

My heart sank. "Sure, Addie. Love you."

"Love you too!" She chirped and waved.

The line went dead.

As soon as the call ended, my phone rang again. Jackson's name on the screen made my blood curdle. I declined the call immediately and deleted the onslaught of text messages from this morning, telling me he was at my apartment and demanding I let him in.

I pushed myself out of bed and padded to the bathroom to clean myself up. There was less blood this morning than yesterday, thankfully, but cramps rocked through my body and knocked me off balance.

When I saw myself in the mirror, I had to clutch the counter to keep from collapsing. A ghost of myself stared back at me. My cheeks were hollow, the bags under my eyes darker and deeper than ever. The bruise on my cheek was a grotesque reminder of what my life had suddenly become. My skin was pale, and my walnut brown hair—normally my pride and joy—was in a knotted mess around my shoulders. In the right light, the hints of green in my hazel eyes seemed to glow. At that moment, I thought my eyes had never looked more…dead. I looked lifeless. Soulless. Broken.

I lifted my shirt to stare at my torso, as if I could make the slightest bump appear. There was nothing, of course—just the soft curves of my stomach and the scar from my emergency appendectomy ten years ago.

I braided my hair to hide the curls and frizz from falling asleep with wet hair. There was nothing I could do about the bags under my eyes, though.

I changed into leggings and a loose t-shirt before making my way to the kitchen. I felt hungry today, for the first time in three days. I'd called out of work for a couple days to rest—and grieve—but now I felt listless.

Mom and Dad were already at work, so the house was quiet, except for the ancient family dog snoring in the living room. I made a cup of coffee and put a couple frozen waffles in the toaster.

All at once, Jackson's words shot through me like a meteor shower—one blow at a time.

This was all my fault.

I killed our baby.

I dangled a family in front of him and then took it away.

We would try again as soon as we could.

I clutched my stomach as another cramp seized me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to no one. "I'm so sorry I couldn't keep you. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough."

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

My words slurred together the more I repeated them until they became sobs. I clutched the counter to keep myself standing. I was sorry I killed my baby. I was sorry I took away Jackson's chance at a family. I didn't try hard enough. I didn't take care of myself.

I failed.

For the first time in my life, I wanted to run.

I couldn't stand the thought of returning to my apartment, where I'd learned I was pregnant and then lost my future in a matter of weeks. Jackson's things would be littered around the room: his jacket on the dining room table, his toothbrush in the bathroom, his shirts in my closet. I never wanted to return to work, where my coworkers would look at me with pity. I didn't want to face my parents when they came home. Their questions. Their sad eyes. Their pity. I never wanted to see Jackson again; I wanted to outrun the memory of his lips on mine, his hands on my skin, his body claiming mine.

I felt trapped. I sucked in a breath.

This was a phase; my feelings would fade with time. Right now, I was hormonal and guilty and drained. I had nothing left to give.

Robotically, I wrapped my plain waffles in a paper towel and carried them and my coffee back to my room. I closed the door behind me and crawled back into bed. The duvet was warm, and I settled against the pillows with a heavy sigh. My hands shook while I unwrapped my waffles, lifting one to bite into it. It tasted like nothing, but it was enough to keep my stomach from screaming.

When the waffles and the coffee were gone, I settled further into the sheets and closed my eyes.

After that, I wasn't aware of time passing.

A knock at my bedroom door sometime later roused me from my half-sleep state. I sat up drowsily as the door creaked open and Mom poked her head inside.

"Have you been in bed all day?" She asked. Her tone wasn't accusing; it was sad.

I shrugged. "I got up to make waffles at noon."

Mom frowned. I checked the time on my phone, deleting another dozen messages and missed call notifications from Jackson. It was after six. She'd been home for over an hour; Dad was home too. The smell of something delicious wafted into my room from the kitchen.

"Dad made steak sandwiches for dinner. Are you hungry?"

No. Yes. I didn't know.

I forced the best smile I could muster—more of a grimace than anything. "I'll try to eat."

Mom's eyes filled with soft hope and she nodded before backing out of the room and disappearing down the hall. I sat up, pressing my palms into my eyes to alleviate my pounding headache.

I cleaned myself up as quickly as I could, rebraided my hair, and took some more pain medication. I clutched my water bottle as I walked through my parents' house.

In the kitchen, Dad was slicing the steak into thin strips and Mom offered me a small smile as she pulled a couple pieces of sliced French bread out of the toaster oven. My stomach soured at the thought of such a flavorful meal, but I needed the extra iron and protein.

"Hey, kiddo," Dad said softly. "You hungry?"

I nodded once, slipping past him to fill my water bottle. "No horseradish on mine, please."

"That's the best part," Mom countered.

"Too spicy." I waved her off. Even if I felt like myself, I couldn't stand spicy food.

My parents' worried gazes followed me to the dining table. I resisted the urge to curl into myself and chose to open social media while I waited. I searched for the NASA Astronomy Photo of the Day, taking in the sight of the bright teal and orange cosmic cloud known as Thor's Helmet. Normally, the thirty-light-year-wide bubble would bring me joy. Tonight, I blacked out my phone and simply sat in my chair and stared until Dad set a plate in front of me. My parents sat on either side of me, digging into their meals without any of their usual chatter.

I lifted my sandwich, taking a deep breath. My bottom lip quivered; I choked down my tears. I took a bite of the sandwich and counted the seconds until I swallowed it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Dad nod in approval, then glance at Mom with wide eyes.

I wanted to scream, to tell them to stop looking at me like I was broken.

Except, I was broken.

One wrong move and every part of me would crumble to dust. One stray tear and I would drown in my sorrows.

Mom cleared her throat and straightened. "Do you have to work any more this week?"

I shook my head weakly. "No, I called out until Tuesday."

She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed for a while. Then, she spoke again. "Do you want us to do anything about Jackson?"

I flinched at the sound of his name, almost dropping my sandwich. Licking my lips a few times, as if that could heal the chapped and broken skin, I lowered my dinner to my plate and took a drink of water to avoid heaving it back up. "I think I might need a restraining order," I whispered truthfully.

"I'll kill him," Dad muttered.

Another crack in my crumbling heart. I placed my hand on top of his. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry I disappointed you."

Dad shook his head. "You could never disappoint us, Indy-bug. We're here to help you get better. We'll be here as much as you want us to be."

"Thank you."

It was quiet after that.