I throw back a smile and a thank you as I walkaway.
Why am I this disappointed when I knew theending?
My hope is gone, and that’s a good thing, I guess. Better than having it hang around and hauntme.
Isaac reallyleft.
For us there will be no first date. No showing up at my front door with something other thanflowers.
The confirmation is a deliverance. I don’t need to keep torturing myself with thoughts about what might havebeen.
I can stop dwelling on that night and focus on thefuture.
* * *
And my firststep in that direction starts with a conversation I don’t want tohave.
Some people think self-reflection is a good thing, and I suppose it can be. But after a while, for someone as good and practiced at self-reflection as I am, it's more like aprison.
Right now, I'm inprison.
What if I hadn't gone out thatnight?
What if I'd told Brittno?
What if I told Isaac to take a hike instead of letting him hike up myskirt?
I wouldn't be where I am now, that's forsure.
I’ve thought of that night enough times that at this point, I’m sick of it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make the one picture I took at the bar capture more than it did. My forehead and Isaac’s dark hair dominate the lower left corner, and the scene behind us is a blur of bodies and bottles. Nothing I can do will make any of thisdifferent.
My dad's truck engine can be heard down the block, long before it reaches our driveway. I sit on the living room couch and listen as it comes closer to our house. It sounds more like a slow march toward theguillotine.
He pulls into his spot and kills the engine. By now he's seen my car and is wondering what I'm doing here. It’s Thursday, not Sunday. If I come over during the week, I tell him first, but this time, I couldn't spare any extra words. As it is, I’m not sure I'll have enough words to get through what’s in front ofme.
My shoulders jump when his truck door slams. I count backward in my head, picturing his walk up the path to the front door.10...9...8...7...6...5...4...
"Aubrey, what are you doing? Everything all right?" My dad stands in the doorway. It’s an average size entry, and his large body fills a majority of thespace.
The concern in his gaze causes tears to well up in my eyes.Oh,Daddy.
He rushes across the foyer, forehead creased. His keys smack the coffee table. The couch dips beneath me as hesits.
"Aubs, what is it?" His voice is panicky. "Is itGrandma?"
I shake my head. “No, no. She's OK. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" My voice trails off as I search for the words. “It's just…" I cover my face with my hands, unable to look at him as I speak. I didn’t think we’d reach this point this quickly, but here we are. There’s nothing to do but say it. “I'mpregnant.”
My head stays in my hands, and I keep my eyes squeezed shut as the seconds tick by. The silence continues, growing and growing until I dare to peek athim.
He's ramrod straight on the couch, eyes wide, hands in a prayer position against his lips. His thumbs hook under his chin, and he's taking deep breaths, air filling his chest until it puffs out, then streams from hisnose.
“Say something.” My voice istiny.
His gaze falls to the floor between his feet. “I didn't even know you were active…in that way, I mean. I just assumed that you, I don't know, were just…” He gulps, his cheeksred.
My face is so hot, I can feel the warmth in my ears. It doesn't matter that I'm twenty-one and an adult. His baby girl is pregnant, and he hasn't even heard the worst of it yet. I open my mouth to tell him the part that's going to make this bad dream a nightmare, but he starts talkingfirst.
“You didn't tell me you and Owen were back together.” There's an accusatory edge to his tone. It would be an understatement to say my dad simplydislikesOwen.
