"We're really doing this," he says.
"We're really doing this."
We stop at a pharmacy on the way home to pick up some new prenatal vitamins.
Garrett runs inside while I wait in the truck, studying the ultrasound picture and letting myself imagine what the future might look like.
A nursery painted soft yellow.
A crib by the window.
Tiny clothes and toys and all the things I never thought I'd have.
My phone buzzes.
A text from Tildie:
How did it go? Tell me everything!!!
I'm typing a response when I realize I need to pee.
The pharmacy has a public restroom—I remember seeing it on a previous visit.
And Garrett's been in there for ten minutes already, the line must be long.
I climb out of the truck and head for the side of the building, where a narrow alley leads to the back entrance.
The bathroom is just inside, I remember.
Quick in, quick out.
The alley is empty.
Quiet.
My boots crunch on the thin layer of snow as I walk, my breath fogging in the cold air.
I'm halfway down when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Well, well, well."
The voice stops me cold.
Iknowthat voice.
I've heard it in my nightmares, in the dark corners of my memory, in all the places I've tried to forget.
I turn around slowly.
Virgil.
He's standing at the mouth of the alley, blocking my exit.
He looks the same as he always did—tall, lean, with the kind of handsome face that hides something rotten underneath.
His smile is all teeth and no warmth.
"Vanna Smith." He takes a step toward me. "Or should I say Vanna Mercer? Heard you got yourself cleaned up. Back with that biker piece of shit."
