Although he says I’ve softened, my heart has hardened since Alexander left. I spend the next few days in my regular routine. I haven’t had any alcohol since that night, not liking how freely my mind wanders under the influence. I threw the bottle of wine out the next day too, the thought of wine turning my stomach. I’ve stuck with water and juice. I’ve been craving Cheetos and ice cream though. After another ten-hour shift, I stop by the convenience store to grab some goodies. Jason isn’t working, so I head to the motel and settle in. I end up staring at the TV until I fall asleep.
Per usual, my sleep is restless, the nightmares more vivid, but instead of seeing him kill himself, I feel that monster’s breath against my neck and his hands touching my body. I wake up in a sweat and run to vomit the memories away. So many questions remain. What if Alexander wouldn’t have come in when he did? Would I have been able to stab him to stop him from raping me? What if? What if? What if?
These questions haunt my day, the torture now around the clock. I vomit often, my body rejecting his presence inside my mind.
Weeks go by and I’ve successfully avoided facing reality . . . continued to successfully avoid making long-term plans or any decisions regarding life. Three weeks have felt like a cycle of nightmares that have become so vivid I’m running more on caffeine these days than sleep. I can’t live my life like this anymore. I need to face the demons of my past to help clear the air for my future. That means going home. It’s time.
Ever since Della won her custody case, she’s been in a great mood. I hate to dampen her mood, but I need to tell her what I’ve been thinking. I’d rather tell her when she’s in a good mood than bad. So when I return from my break, I rinse my mouth so the horrific memories from that night don’t leave such an acrid taste behind. “Do you have a minute, Della?”
“Sure, honey, what do you need?”
I wrap my arm across my stomach, afraid I’ll be sick again if I start crying. “I’m leaving. I hate to do it like this, but it’s time I go home.”
Sympathy settles on her face. “Aw, I hate to hear that, but I understand. I can tell the pregnancy has taken a toll on you. You should be with your family.”
My rebuttal comes fast and punctuated with a laugh, “I’m not pregnant.”
“You’re not?”
“No,” I reply self-assuredly.
“Are you sure?” Her gaze analyzes mine.
My arms wrap tighter around my middle. “I can’t be pregnant.”
“I just thought with you throwing up so much . . . I heard your boyfriend was in town visiting . . . Maybe you should take a test.”
I was on birth control before I started having sex, but since I left the pills behind, and I wasn’t planning on having sex with anyone other than Alexander, I let it slide. My mouth drops open when I realize how natural it is for us to fall into each other like we always have—bare, skin to skin—that I didn’t even think of birth control when he was here. “Oh my God.” My hand covers my mouth in shock.
“Why don’t you take the afternoon off and take a test, Alice. You need to know.”
Grabbing my purse from under the counter, I mumble, “Yes, I need to know. Thanks.” I hurry out the door and across the street to the convenience mart. I’ll have to face Jason, but I need to know, so I’ll deal with the embarrassment.
He greets me with a smile when I enter the store. “Hey, Alice.”
“Hi.” I rush down the first aisle, which has pharmacy needs, and grab two pregnancy test boxes from the bottom shelf. I also grab a large bottle of water and some pork cracklins to distract him. Who am I kidding? There’s no hiding the tests, but I still keep the pork rinds. I dump my stuff on the counter and talk too fast to hide my nerves. “I’ll need a bag today, please.”
The silence that follows slays me, my face heating as he stares at the boxes. Without a word, he grabs a paper bag from under the register and keeps his eyes down. “Sure thing.” He punches a few buttons on the register then looks up. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” Please just let this torture end and let me leave.
He gives me my total, and when I pay him, he says, “If you ever need a friend to talk to or help, you can come to me. I won’t make judgments.”
I try to interject some humor into the conversation, hoping to sidetrack him as well. “Well, what’s the fun in that? Isn’t that what friends are for? To judge us?” I laugh but it’s shallow.
When I reach for the bag, he reaches out and touches my hand. “I mean it, Alice. I’m here if you need anything.”
Looking at his hand covering mine, his genuine sincerity, I feel ill. Everything about his touch is wrong. My body rejects it altogether, and I pull back. “I’m fine. Thank you though.”
“No problem. I’ll be here all night if you need to talk.”
“Thanks.” My response is clipped, but I have no doubt he understands why.
Not five minutes later, I enter my room and empty the contents of the bag onto the bed, grabbing one of the boxes. I pull the stick from the package and read the directions. One line—not pregnant. Two lines—pregnant. Got it.
As soon as I finish peeing on the stick, I replace the cap and set it flat on the bathroom counter and start the three-minute countdown. My hands start to shake as I stare at the white window box waiting for anything to happen, but praying that whatever the outcome, life will be better because of it.
I am strong.
I am— My old mantra enters my head for the first time since that night at Kingwood Enterprises. I cut it short, not ready to pretend I’m stronger than I am. Yes, I have survived on my own. That is something I have proven. But I can also see I’m stronger with Alexander.
Thirty seconds. Shit. Adrenaline is coursing through me, so I get up and pace to the motel door and back again. Five times. Each time, checking the window. Nothing detectable yet.
One minute and twenty seconds. I take a deep breath as I approach the stick. When I look there’s pink. Success! Oh wait, what does it mean? I bend over for a closer look. Pink. I grab the box and look at the photos again, then skim the included pamphlet once more to confirm. If any part of two pink lines appear—pregnant. I look down at my watch. Three minutes.
Taking the stick in hand, I stare at two very defined pink lines. My head feels light, and I grab hold of the towel bar to keep myself upright. Pregnant.
I don’t know how long I stand there, time escaping me like sand running through my fingers. I’m pregnant.
Setting the stick on the dresser, I lie on the bed and curl onto my side. My arm protectively covers my stomach, and I close my eyes. I see Alexander, the boy who swooped me up into his dark world and let me shine my light in. He’s the man who would do anything for me, but save himself. The image of that photo that hangs in his closet comes to mind, but the memory vanishes before I have a chance to hold on to it. His father’s eyes pierce my happiness and a sharp pain shoots through my side.
A severe gasp cuts through my throat, the terror of that night wreaking havoc on my body. I run to the bathroom to throw up. Landing hard on my knees, I hover over the bowl, hoping to expel the violent memories along with my lunch.