Page 49

DECEMBER 2009 – 18 YEARS OLD

Iwish I could text Andy for advice. I wish I could spill all the secrets I’ve been keeping locked up in the vault of my shame and guilt—and beg for help to find a path, any path, to redemption.

I wish I could call my friend. I wish I could talk to someone…

I need boy advice, but how can I ask for boy advice when the boy—or—erm—man I’m asking for advice regarding is supposed to be a man I’ve already been sleeping with for months? A man I’ve allegedly made a baby with. Not the man who is pretending to be the father of the baby his little brother made.

I drop my face into my hands, smothering my groan.

When did life become so complicated?

My mind spins as I lift my head to take in the sight of my room with all the things a baby will soon need. All the things my baby will soon need.

Our baby, I hear Tate’s voice echo in my mind.

Our baby.

I’m having a baby with a man I’ve never even kissed. Not once.

I’m pretty sure we’ve come close to it a time or two, but it’s never actually happened. I don’t really understand what’s holding Tate back—if what he says is true and he’s always held feelings for me.

Maybe it’s the baby in my belly. Maybe he’s disturbed by being affectionate with me like that while I’m carrying his brother’s child.

The thought has a sharp blade twisting inside me, and sharper tears prick my eyes. I’ve been riding a mental swing that’s taking a hell of a toll. One moment, I’m happy and excited for the future. The next, I’m swimming through the pits of despair.

I push off the bed and shove myself into a set of soft red plaid pyjamas. I bought them from the Christmas collection at Foster’s Gear because they matched Tate’s. I feel silly now that I’m wearing them, but they’re too soft and warm to trash, so I sniff back another swell of emotion to swipe my phone from the side table.

I might not be able to text Andy about my boy troubles, but I can still text my friend.

Hey.

What’s up, babe?

I miss you.

I was wondering when you’d realize I’m too awesome not to talk to every day.

I laugh out loud. It’s a pathetic laugh, though, that sounds more like a whimper.

Sorry.

I get it, girl. Life is complicated.

Life is—awful.

I don’t say that.

Yeah…

How’s…Tate?

My heart flips in my chest.

He’s Tate.

So…obsessed with you?

Shy said something similar, and I can’t stop my mind from replaying the times when Holt would get weird about Tate and me. I can’t help but wonder if I’m the only one who didn’t see it—Tate’s feelings for me.