Mom’s whispered voice has me spinning around to face her as she cautiously enters the room and takes a seat on my bed. I can tell she’s noticed the unshed tears in my eyes, although she doesn’t say anything, simply palming my duvet and inviting me to take a seat.
The house is almost silent, which is unusual. Mom always has something playing on the radio, dancing around the living space while Rufus, our Jack Russell terrier, side-eyes her from his basket.
Today, there isn’t any music playing or a judgmental look from my dog because Rufus passed away over Christmas. I should’ve returned home for the holidays, but instead, I spent it with Tucker and his family, sitting at a grand table in an even grander dining room, pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
I never fit into his life—a Brooklyn girl from a working-class family. No matter how many times I tried to prove that I was with Tucker for him and not his money or connections, that message fell onto deaf ears.
“Seeing you upset breaks my heart.” Mom tucks a piece of wavy red hair behind my ear before taking one of my hands in hers. “But witnessing your silence is tearing me apart,” she admits. “Talk to me, Billie. I want to support you through this, but I can’t help if you don’t let me in. Have you and Tucker officially broken up?”
I shake my head. It isn’t an answer to her question, more a sign of confusion. “I don’t know what we are. After I told him that I was taking a leave of absence from college and coming back home, he told me it was for the best and pretty much ended the call.”
Mom intertwines our fingers, shifting on the bed beside me. “Do you want it to be the end with him?”
I shrug, still conflicted over my feelings despite everything that’s happened. “I don’t know.”
“If …” Mom’s voice fades out when Dad enters my room and sets the final suitcase down by my feet.
“The truck’s fully unloaded, Bill. How about I fix you something to eat?” He’s trying to be upbeat and show that this isn’t affecting him in the same way it is Mom. Or that he doesn’t want to tear Tucker limb from limb and feed him to a pride of lions.
I guess that’s what decent fathers would do—protect and defend their own. Fight for their offspring in any way that they can.
Unless your name is Tucker Price.
“I’m not hungry,” I reply, gaze dropping to the dark green suitcase Dad just set down.
It has all of my textbooks inside, ones that I’ll likely never need again. I might’ve taken a leave of absence, and college might be promising me all the help and support when I return, but we all know I’m fighting a losing battle. I can barely go five minutes without needing to pee, and I’ll have even less time when the baby arrives. I’ll be surviving each day, and studying will be a thing of the past.
At least for the next eighteen years.
My stomach protests, growling into the quiet room.
“When was the last time you ate?” Mom asks.
“A packet of Cheez-Its on the flight.”
Mom makes the kind of noise only mothers can make—one crossed between concern and annoyance. “You’re eight months pregnant, Billie. You have to keep up your strength.”
“I’m fine,” I counter, releasing her hand and twisting mine around in my lap. “I’m not hungry,” I repeat.
My cell vibrates once on the nightstand, and Dad picks it up, brows knitting together when he takes in the message across the screen.
Deep down, I know I should walk away from Tucker and his toxic family. Still, I can’t help but cling to a lasting hope that he will stay true to all his promises. If not for me, then for the sake of the baby.
My eyes are still locked on my phone when Dad eventually hands it to me.
Clara
Your flight landed over three hours ago. Are you home? Have you heard from Tucker? I overheard a couple of girls in the library talking about him. Apparently, he was seen at another house party last night. I could wring his goddamn neck!
“You need to eat something, Bill,” Dad persists.
“And I said that I’m not hungry,” I snap, dropping my phone into my lap, hands covering my face.
The sob that breaks free from my throat is automatic, but not unexpected, and I feel the warmth and scent of Mom as she wraps her arms around my shoulders.
“What if I took us to Miguel’s for lunch?” Dad suggests, knowing that Miguel’s is my favorite Mexican restaurant.
It has been since I was five years old. We’d go every year for my birthday and sometimes with Mom and Dad’s best friends, Emmett and Maria. Although that’s likely to change, too, since they just finalized their divorce.
