Um, okay.
Technically, Devon didn’t say anything bad. On the contrary. I told him I wanted nothing to do with his ass after I got pregnant, and he was just sticking to the script. To what we signed off on that night I stood him up at the opera. But I couldn’t shake this weird feeling that I’d been discarded like an old sock.
You wanted to be discarded like an old sock. In fact, you threw yourself headfirst into the laundry basket.
“Duh.” I yawned audibly, pretending to be undeterred by his businesslike manner. “Is email okay for the updates? I would fax them, but I’m under seventy-five.”
“Email is great. We should also schedule a weekly call.”
Now that sounded more personal.
“I’m down,” I said, a little too quickly.
What was wrong with me? Hormones, I decided. Also, I was going to celebrate by consuming my body weight in cake. I was now eating for two, even if the other person inside me was currently smaller than a grain of rice.
“I’ll have my secretary, Joanne, contact you about times and dates that suit both of us.”
All right, scratch that. Totally not personal.
“I’ll probably have to see my doctor every week because my uterus is hostile and my ovaries are polycystic.”
I made a note to add this to my Tinder profile whenever I got back to the one-night stand pool. It made me sound like a real catch. Not.
“Sweven …” Devon said. It felt like honey had been poured inside my guts when he called me by that stupid nickname. “I promise to be the father this child deserves. A better father than we both had.”
His comment was like a bucket of ice poured over my fuzzy feeling. I never told him anything bad about my dad. He just made that assumption from the two-minute phone call. But that was bullshit. My dad and I were perfectly fine.
Great even.
I would totally shed a tear or two when he died, unlike cold and uncaring Devon, who looked practically relieved when his dad kicked the bucket.
Not wanting to display any more emotion than I already had, I laughed throatily.
“Speak for yourself, Devon. My dad is the bomb dot com.”
“I may be seventy-five, but at least you’d never catch me saying what you just said.”
“What was that?” I challenged.
He chuckled. “Nice try.”
“How about a moment of zen?” I offered. “Let’s talk about weird-ass animals. Have you ever seen a lowland streaked tenrec?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“They look like bleached skunks who just woke up after a night of partying and MDMA and need to get their roots done.”
“What about markhors?” he asked. “They look like women in BabyLiss commercials. Have a great day, Sweven. Thank you for the good news.”
After we hung up, I shot Doctor Bjorn an email informing him of the development and asking him if I needed to do anything other than eat well, sleep well, rest, and all the other mumbo-jumbo I’d already read about in the dozens of pregnancy articles I consumed on a daily basis.
I reopened the chat with the girls, my fingers shaking with excitement. It was too soon. I knew that. And totally irresponsible considering it was a high-risk pregnancy. But I was never really good at delaying gratification.
Belle: I have news to share. Meet tomorrow at Boston Common?
Aisling: absolutely.
Persy: I think I know what it is and I’m excited.
Sailor: see you there.
I didn’t need Devon.
I had the Boston Belles.
Fourteen Years Old.
The first time is innocent.
I don’t even think you can call it a first time.
We’re deep into ninth grade now—exams, homework, girl cliques. I stay away from the white noise and stick to the goal: running the fastest, making sure my baby sister Persephone and her friend Sailor are not getting picked on at school, and fantasizing about kissing Coach Locken.
During one of our grueling track practices, I feel a sharp pain in my knee.
I keep running—I’m no quitter. But when Locken blows the whistle that’s eternally tucked inside his mouth, I stop, limping my way back to him with the rest of the harriers. I try to cover up my limp, because I’m starting to understand something about human nature. When people smell weakness, that’s when they pounce.
“Shit, dude. That looks rough.” Adam Handler makes a face, jerking his chin in the direction of my knee. I look down, still wobbling over to Coach. Shit indeed. My knee is swollen and red.
“It’s fine,” I snap defensively. “I can barely feel it.”