“Not now,” Seb says quickly. “Ellie needs time. There’s no rush.”
“There’s a rush,” Colby says. “There’s no hiding what’s coming.”
“If it’s coming,” I snap.
Silence falls like a thick winter blanket over the room, spreading inside me like poison. It’s my right to choose what I want to do. Of that, I’m certain. But I don’t want to hurt these men who are trying their best to be what I need. I don’t want to be cruel.
At the same time, I’m unsure how to express what I’m feeling, and I don’t know what I want.
Well, I do. I want to go back to that night at Molly’s, to the moment before I left this house. I want to undo everything that’s happened so I can go back to being the Ellie at Dornan’s party who didn’t have a care in the world.
But at the same time, that would mean never knowing how it felt to rest in their arms, to never know the warmth and strength of their presence in my life. It would mean never discovering the person I am with them.
Alive.
Fearless.
Carefree.
Our lives are like a rope of experiences, all woven and tangled together. We can’t pull out just one to discard it without changing everything that comes after. Even though it’s hard to accept, I get it too.
We walk forward.
That’s all we can do.
And I have to find the strength to face what’s happening to me and do what needs to be done. I have to, but finding the courage and strength is another matter.
Micky’s hand rests on my shoulder. “Take your time, Ellie. Work out what it is you want to do. Work out what you need from us. Let’s keep talking, okay?” Then he does something that makes all the bottled-up feelings spill over. He kisses me with all the sweetness that he has inside him, and suddenly, I’m crying. In seconds, the three of them are around me, holding me and kissing me wherever they can find space.
It’s so risky when we could get caught at any moment, but in my time of distress, none of us has any care of the risks. This pregnancy has put a different perspective on everything that I thought was important. It’s as though my lens has been shattered, and all I can see are the parts and pieces of my past concerns and hopes.
Colby’s hand touches my belly, and I flinch, but he doesn’t pull away, and the warmth of his hand sends a flush through me.
We stay like that for minutes that feel like hours, and in the cradle of their arms, I feel more like myself again. But then mom calls us down for dinner and breaks our secret world of security and peace once more.
For three days, I stay in bed. On day two, Seb encourages me to shower. Micky brings me toast with butter and cool ginger tea to sip. Colby waits by the door like a worried parent. On day three, Micky’s the one who takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom, and when I come back, I find my bed stripped and remade.
Mom floats around during the day. She makes the soup and insists I take a few sips, but it only makes me feel more nauseous. Her hands flutter as I stare grimly at her from my pillow.
I can’t tell her why, though. I can’t share what’s going on because I don’t want to shatter her fragile happiness.
On the evening of the fourth day, after avoiding phone calls from all my friends, an unfamiliar-sounding car pulls up outside the house, and the doorbell rings.
Voices sound in the hall, but not loud enough for me to make out who it is. Footsteps start up the stairs, and mom calls through the door, “Ellie, Dornan, Gabriella, and Celine are here. Shall I let them in?”
I scramble out of bed, catching sight of my wild hair and pale face in the mirror. At least my PJs and sheets are clean, but I still feel as though my room smells of sickness.
You’re not ill, I remind myself.
“Err…, just give me a minute.”
Grabbing a clip, I twist my hair and pin it on the back of my head. I quickly use a cleansing wipe to freshen up my face and throw open my window, letting the cool night air spill into the room.
I feel fine, which makes my past three days of isolation seem very self-indulgent.
I open the door a crack and see four worried faces peering in. Dornan doesn’t give me a chance to say come in. He approaches so quickly that I’m forced to whip the door open wide enough to let him pass. Celine and Gabriella troop in behind him.
“You’re looking better,” mom says, smiling but uncertain.
“Thanks.” She leaves, but not without a backward glance to check all is right.