The days slide by, heavy and slow.Work, home, sleep.Repeat.The rhythm keeps me from thinking too much.Before the month is out, I call and ask Sugar to clean out my apartment back in Evervale, thankful my lease was month to month.She says she has room to keep a few boxes until I can pick them up.
Not wanting to remember the sting of humiliation, I stop checking the news from Evervale.I stop wondering if anyone’s still talking about me.I even stop humming Christmas songs, though they still creep in when I’m not paying attention.
I tell myself I’m fine.That I’m healing.That I’m free.
Every lie starts small.
By the third week, my stomach turns on me.The smells in the bakery start making me dizzy.Even coffee starts tasting like metal.I blame it on stress, exhaustion, maybe bad milk.Emily, the college girl who works the counter, teases me when I gag over a tray of croissants.
“You sure you’re not pregnant?”she laughs.
I laugh too, maybe a second too late.“Pretty sure.”
But that night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling and count the days.The math hits like a fist to the gut.I sit up, shaking, and whisper, “No.Not possible.”
Except it is.
I realize, I’ve been too busy starting a new life to notice a missed period.
The next morning, I walk to the corner drugstore, coat zipped high, hood up like shame has a shape.I buy the test, pay in cash, don’t make eye contact.Back in the bathroom, I set it on the counter, stare at it like it might bite.The seconds crawl.The hum of the radiator fills the silence.When the pink lines appear, my knees go weak.
I don’t cry.I don’t scream.I just sit there, hands over my mouth, heart pounding so loud it echoes.
My first thought isn’t fear.It’s him.Humbug.I see his face in the garage that night, hear his voice, hushed, jagged, when he called me Peppermint like it was a sin.It was a sin.We were two cheaters.But he pulled out.
And I still remember the warmth on my stomach.Not to mention the danger, the way I felt alive and doomed all at once.And then I remember the truth, the robbery, his lies, the paint dripping down my chest.
The nausea that follows isn’t from the pregnancy.
The next morning, I show up to the bakery early, hoping the ovens will burn the thoughts out of me.The air is thick with cinnamon and sugar, but I can barely breathe.The bell over the door rings, and I look up to see my phone buzzing on the counter.
Sugar.
For a heartbeat, I want to throw the phone in the oven.Instead, I swipe to answer.
“Hey, Caroler,” she says.Her voice is soft, like she already knows.“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie.“Why?”
“Because your name’s been coming up again.Humbug’s lookin’ for you.Been ridin’ through every bar askin’ if anyone’s seen you.He even went back to Sno-Globes.”
My stomach twists.“Tell him to stop.”
“Carol…” Sugar’s voice drops.“He looks bad.Like he ain’t slept in weeks.”
“Then he can lie awake forever for all I care.”
“He says he just wants to talk.”
“I said tell him to stop.”The words come out sharper than I mean them, but I don’t take them back.
I hang up and stare at the phone until my reflection warps in the dark screen.My pulse won’t slow.The ovens beep, the timer sings.I turn back to work, forcing my hands to move, to roll, to fold.
I tell myself I can do this.I can raise a baby.I can build a new life out of the ashes of the old one.I can bake bread, pay rent, and breathe without motor oil and heartbreak.
Evervale can keep its fake charm.
Humbug can keep his lies.
