I wake with a start, gasping heavily as the dream house explodes along with my baby, and guilt consumes me, locking down my chest until I feel as though I can’t breathe. Even my subconscious is guilt-tripping me at this point. When I look at the clock, I groan at the time. Five thirty. I managed to sleep for an hour and a half that time around, but somehow, I’m even more tired than the last time I woke up.
Deep, irrational yearning for Gabriel’s arms leaves a hollow ache in my chest, and I’m tempted to creep down the hall to his bedroom so I can snuggle up with him. But my pride won’t let me concede that easily. He’s finally giving me the space I’ve been craving and demanding for so long. If I back down now, I won’t just be losing to him, I’ll be admitting failure to myself.
Rolling onto my back, I sigh heavily. If I could just get a little bit of rest, I feel like I could think more clearly. But sleep evades me as my thoughts dive into a tailspin. And before I know it, sunlight is creeping through the blinds, shattering my hopes of any reprieve.
At eight o’clock, I sit up with a growl and toss my covers aside. What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee right now. But I’m pretty sure that’s on the no-no list when it comes to being pregnant. I feel so useless, unsure of what the rules really are and whether I even need to be following them. But I supposed until I make up my mind, it won’t hurt to follow the ones I know. That might even make my choice somehow clearer.
A light tap on my door surprises me, and I realize it must be Gabe needing to come get dressed. So much for giving me space. This one-room living area has us stepping on each other’s toes no matter what we do.
“Come in,” I say, grabbing a sweater and pulling it over my head to cover up a little more. I don’t need to be teasing him if he’s trying to respect my need for distance. And I don’t really want to have to force the issue, which I might if he sees me with little more than a cami and shorts.
But it’s not Gabriel who peers around the edge of the door.
“Morning,” Starla says sweetly, her hazel eyes bright, her face looking exceptionally refreshed compared to what I’m sure mine looks like. I feel as though I must have black bruises under my eyes from the weight of the bags there. What I wouldn’t give for a facial and a spa day right about now.
“Hi,” I say, offering her a weak smile as I slump onto the bed, too exhausted to care that I’m being rude. “I wasn’t expecting you. I was expecting….”Do I tell her I thought it was Gabe? Should I be admitting that we didn’t sleep in the same room?I’m not sure why it should matter.
“I brought you something,” she says, handing over a steaming to-go cup of coffee.
It smells heavenly, and I can’t bring myself to refuse it, though I know I won’t drink it. Still, my mouth waters at the thought of tasting the rich, caffeinated liquid. “Thanks,” I say, trying not to let my tears show as they brim in my eyes.
When she turns to close the door behind her, I quickly swipe my face dry. Starla comes to sit next to me on the bed, holding her own coffee mug in both her hands as she picks at its sleeve. An uncommon moment of awkward silence fills the room as I fight my exhaustion, too tired to think of something to say.
“Last night was fun, wasn’t it?” she asks at long last. “Ringing in the new year with drunken fireworks in the backyard?”
Her eyes travel to the window as a smile spreads across her face, and for once, I get a good look at the long, thin scar running from her temple down to her chin. I still haven’t had the courage to ask her about it, though I suspect it has something to do with the Devil’s Sons’ history with a rival gang. If it does, I doubt she’ll ever want to talk about it to me.
“Yeah, fun,” I agree absently, thinking about the way I kept picturing the clubhouse taking a direct hit and bursting into flames.
Starla seems to detect my sarcasm and turns to meet my gaze. “Did the party go much longer after I left?”
I shrug. “No, not really. The boys played some pool… I went to bed.” That’s about as much as I can tell her without flat-out lying about what happened last night, and I’m not about to tell her that Gabriel fucked me on the clubhouse couch in full view of his friends.
Another awkward silence stretches between us, and I look down at my cup of coffee, willing it to be okay for my child. I think about all the times I so casually drank coffee during my years of high school and college, only the best coffee shops in town. What I wouldn’t give for a double shot of espresso in a skinny pumpkin spice latte right about now.
“It’s decaf,” she says finally, pointing to the paper mug warming my hands as she breaks the silence once more.
I look up in surprise, then glance back down at it, my chest tightening with unexpected emotion as I realize I can actually enjoy the coffee without causing any issues for the baby. “Thank you,” I whisper tearfully and bring the mug to my lips for the first heavenly taste of morning I’ve had in days.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you. I just…” Starla only hesitates for a moment before the words spill from her mouth. “Are you pregnant?”
Stunned, I stare at her in silence, the mug halfway to my lips.
“I’m so sorry. That just popped out,” she gushes, covering her mouth with her fingers. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude.”
The look of apology she gives me makes me laugh out loud. And once I start, I can’t seem to stop. The peals of laughter spill from me almost hysterically, pouring forth until I’m snorting with uncontrolled mirth. Starla laughs along with me until finally, I’m able to calm down and collect myself.
“What I meant to say,” Starla tries again, “was I’ve seen it happen plenty of times before with the old ladies around the club. I thought I might have noticed some of the signs lately, but you weren’t drinking yesterday. So I just wondered if you were… pregnant, that is.” She pauses expectantly, and I know she’s going to wait until I give her some form of an answer.
I can tell by the tinge of pink in her cheeks that Starla’s embarrassed for having asked the question now. But surprisingly, I find it less difficult to admit to her. Less daunting to say this time than it ever would have been to tell Gabriel.
“Yes,” I reply simply. My cheeks burn with shame at getting knocked up at such a young age. Starla’s about the only friend I’ve made, the only friend I have left in this world, and I don’t want her to judge me for it.
But when our eyes meet, I see no judgment there. She smiles kindly, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze.
“Are you happy about that?” she asks.
The open acceptance of her question puts me at ease. She doesn’t look down on me for it, and she’s not anticipating how I should feel either. For the first time, someone is just allowing me to consider how I feel.