Dinner is quiet. Dad’s distracted by work. Donovan’s on his phone, dealing with some crisis. And Samantha picks at her food just like she did at breakfast.
I try to engage her. Tell a story about nearly setting fire to the garage when I was sixteen. Make jokes. Do everything I can to get her to smile.
She does smile. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
After dinner, everyone scatters, and I end up alone in the sitting room with a glass of whiskey I shouldn’t be drinking while on heart medication.
Through the window, I can see the snow starting to melt. Not drastically, but noticeably. The huge drifts are shrinking. Icicles are dripping.
Soon, the roads will be clear.
Soon, people will be able to leave.
The thought hits me like another chest pain.
Samantha’s been acting strange since yesterday. What if she’s planning to leave?
What if she’s realizing this life isn’t what she wants, and she’s just waiting for the snow to melt so she can go back to Chicago?
The whiskey turns sour in my mouth. I set down the glass and press my hands against my face.
I can’t let her leave.
24
SAMANTHA
Two daysof pretending everything is fine has turned me into an expert liar.
I’ve perfected the art of pushing food around my plate while claiming I already ate. I’ve learned to excuse myself from rooms the moment certain smells hit my nose. I’ve mastered the skill of smiling when my stomach is churning and nodding along to conversations while my mind screams that I’m carrying a baby for men who don’t know the truth about why I’m here.
This morning is no different. I wake up nauseous and spend twenty minutes in the bathroom willing myself not to throw up. The pregnancy test is hidden in the back of my drawer, wrapped in tissues like evidence of a crime.
Which, in a way, it is.
I dress carefully. Choose clothes that don’t cling to my stomach even though nothing shows yet. Apply makeup to hide the shadows under my eyes and the pallor of my skin.
By the time I make it to breakfast, I look almost normal.
Grant is already there, reading something on his tablet while drinking coffee. The smell hits me the moment I walk through the door. Rich and dark and suddenly the most revolting thing I’ve ever encountered.
My stomach lurches, but I force a smile and take my seat.
“Morning,” I say, reaching for the water pitcher instead of the coffee pot like I normally would.
“Morning.” Grant sets down his tablet and studies me. “You look tired.”
“Didn’t sleep well.” Not a lie. I spent most of last night staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how to tell them. Or if I should tell them. Or if I should just disappear before this gets more complicated.
Donovan enters next, followed by Kai. They’re in the middle of an argument about something involving cars and speed limits.
“I’m just saying, if you’re going to own a Ferrari, you should actually drive it like a Ferrari,” Kai says, dropping into his chair.
“I’m saying I’d like to keep my license,” Donovan replies. “And not die.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Staying alive is pretty fun, actually.”
