Ouch, fuck!
Gasping for air, I drop the towel to the floor and clutch at my aching ribs with my spare hand, struggling to draw in a breath as waves of pain radiate through my body. I think I’ve been winded, though I’m not entirely sure. This is probably something sports people would know. But I’m no athlete, far from it. In fact, the last time I set foot in a gym was back in high school. I lift my arm and check for damage, wincing as I touch the tender, red skin across my ribs.
Shit, that’s going to bruise nicely.
Hopefully I didn’t break anything. One of these days my laziness will get me killed. I sink into the warm water once again, this time swiping my phone with my dry hand. Success!
Beth
How’d it go? x
As I’m typing back, a series of texts from Beth flood the screen.
Maybe I should have come with you.
You shouldn’t have gone alone.
If Mom says no, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll find another way.
I don’t want you to feel responsible. I love you, and we’ll get through this together like we always have.
Beth’s always been the type to communicate in rapid-fire bursts rather than craft a single cohesive message. A lump forms in my throat at her last text. When did she become so mature, so wise beyond her years?
She’s wrong, though: I am responsible. After all, I was the one who took her out of that toxic environment. Since then, she’s been my sole focus—my responsibility to protect, to nurture, to provide for. This is my problem to solve, my cross to bear.
Baths have always been my sanctuary, my favorite place to think. There’s something about the warm embrace of the water that relaxes my mind, allowing ideas to bubble to the surface, so I can problem-solve my life as though it’s a mathematical equation. If I put my mind to it, I reckon I could work out the scientific calculation for time travel in a bath. My lip twitches at the ridiculous thought.
Okay, time to lay off the wine.
I lean back and methodically sift through my options, dissecting each possibility with the precision of a seasoned analyst. My accounting degree may have instilled in me the skill to make calculated decisions, but it’s my ability to detach from emotions that proves invaluable in moments like these. In my experience, making emotional decisions nearly always ends in disaster. Approaching Liz for help was my final resort. Now that line has been crossed, it’s a matter of making the deal more favorable.
I mentally compile a list of non-negotiables. Moving back to New York to be part of my mother’s life again is a hard no. I didn’t uproot my life at eighteen and whisk my sister away only to end up back where I started. Beth’s wellbeing is my number one priority. At sixteen she’s still impressionable, and still grappling with the trauma of her congenital heart condition. The last thing she needs is a narcissistic and manipulative mother in her life.
Could I marry a stranger, someone not of my choosing? Could I let him touch me, fuck me? For Beth, absolutely. I never had any intentions of marrying anyway. A traditional marriage and kids have never been a dream of mine, so it’s no hardship to give that up.
Do I want to be a mom? I realize that I’ve never really considered whether it’s something I desire for myself. It was a role I took on from a young age, one that I embraced without question. Raising Beth was not a conscious decision; it was simply what needed to be done. And yet, Beth turned out to be a decent human being—more than decent. She is kind-hearted, compassionate, intelligent, honest, loyal, and overall, a kick-ass girl. I could do it again. I would embrace any child that came into my life with open arms and an open heart. Even if the sperm donor turned out to be an asshole, I would raise the child on my own, just like I did with Beth.
Is bringing a life into this world to save another ethical? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I would love this child fiercely and I would do everything in my power to protect them.
As I steel myself to broach the subject with Mark, I compile a list of stipulations to discuss. Then I finish off my text to Beth.
All sorted. You’ll be running marathons in no time;) x
***
When I peel my eyes open the next morning, my mouth resembles the Sahara Desert and my head pounds relentlessly.
God, wine sucks balls.
With a moan, I roll over, relieved to see I had the foresight to place a bottle of water on the nightstand alongside a couple of painkillers. I pop them in my mouth and gulp down half the water, soothing my parched throat. Picking up my phone, I see it’s close to midday, which would explain the bright sun streaming through the cracks of the blinds. A text from my stepfather is already waiting for me.
I groan and swipe it open.
Mark
Call me when you get this.
With a deep breath, I dial the number I haven’t dared to call in ten long years. Each digit feels heavy as I press it, a silent countdown to the moment when the trajectory of my life will be irrevocably altered.
