I swallow, shooting her a forced grin instead.
“Are you seeing anyone new?” She raises a brow playfully.
I hide a smile, biting down the urge to speak of Weston. He still feels like a secret that’s all mine. “Um... no. I’ve been so busy.”
“Oh, stop that.” She flicks her wrist at me. “I see you getting bashful now. Tell me all about him.”
“It’s nothing, really,” I lie, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve been spending time with one of my dad’s surfers, but we’re just friends.”
“Friends.” She winks. “Right. Sure.”
I quickly change the subject, diving into details about my cousins and Allie instead. Working together at the boardwalk and Allie’s relationship drama from her birthday a couple of weeks ago. I talk about Penelope’s lectures, and some of the paintings I’ve been working on. She tells me about an internship she completed in Berkeley, and how she’s spending the rest of the summer in San Diego at her grandmother’s home before starting school at USC in the fall. Hayden is still working in the Bay Area, apparently, so he’ll fly down to see her on the weekends before they move in together in Los Angeles at the end of the summer.
I don’t ask about Parker. I don’t want to know his plans, but I hope he stays as far away from Southern California as possible. It’s not big enough for the two of us.
My mind drifts to Wes, and I wonder if he feels the same about his father. I can’t imagine living with the knowledge that someone who caused so much harm is not only walking free—but could be lurking around any corner.
A chill nips at my spine, sending a tremor through my body, but I cover it quickly by taking a sip of my s’mores latte.
“So, clearly you don’t want me to bring it up...” Chelsea sighs, and my stomach sinks. “But I’m hoping, now that we’re together, face-to-face, and enough time has passed... you could tell me what happened with Parker? He’s lost without you, Willow.” She lifts her eyes to me, and so much sadness swirls in her gaze. I get the gut feeling it’s not empathy for me. “I hate the idea that you don’t trust me enough to open up, but I understand if that’s the case. Like I said, anything you share is safe with me. I guess... I just want to know if there is any hope for you two at all?”
“There isn’t.” The words rush from me all too quickly.
Chelsea rears back, blinking. “You seem so sure about that.”
“I am.” I nod. “And, honestly, I’d prefer not to talk about Parker. It’s... painful.” My voice breaks on the sentence—disdain masked as heartbreak. I shrug, smiling wistfully as I take another sip, hoping this’ll be where we let the conversation regarding my past die.
She tosses me an unconvinced once-over, gaze narrowing as she picks at her cuticles. “I guess I’m just confused, Willow. Parker was completely blindsided.” Straightening her spine, she tosses her hair behind her shoulder before leaning over the table. “He said you two were perfectly fine. That you went to bed together, he woke up the next morning, went to class, and when he returned you were...” She flicks her fingers. “Poof. Gone.” Her brows furrow before she continues, “A few days later, he received a letter from the management office of your apartment building saying you’d paid out your end of the lease. You never even came back for your things.”
Her tone is growing increasingly frustrated, and the despair inside my chest rises with each word she spews. My skin itches with the urge to become defensive. Yet, emotion pricks behind my eyes at the confirmation that Parker truly has no idea why I left him. Not because I feel guilty, or because I harbor any sense of responsibility for his feelings—I want to fucking cry because he irreparably damaged me, and it’s so inconsequential to him that he doesn’t even realize it.
“Chelsea,” I huff, rubbing my temples, willing the tears to pause before they fall. “I have my reasons, I promise. Please...” I swallow the lump in my throat, blinking rapidly as I drop my gaze to my lap.
She’s going to expect some kind of explanation, and from her perspective, I can understand why. I can’t tell her he assaulted me. He’s her friend, and I don’t want to speak to the details, I don’t want to explain how my live-in boyfriend of two years, whom I had an infinite amount of consensual sex, could’vealso been responsible for my assault. Not out of protection for Parker, but for myself. I can’t bear the thought of spilling my deepest pain, only to witness the picture of doubt in her gaze after I finish. A gut feeling so potent I sway in my chair rushes through me—she won’t believe me, even if I tell her everything. She’s always belonged to Parker—everyone in my life at Berkeley belonged to Parker first.
I don’t think Chelsea could support my decisions, even if she believed the reasons behind them. She presents herself as the kind of person whose life is without flaw or failure, and she’s never shown me any reason to believe she’d be capable of understanding my actions if they weren’t ones she’d take herself.
Bile rises in my throat when I recall the words he’d said about my body. I won’t share those with her, either. I’m not sure I’ll ever share them with anyone—the shame is too soul-deep. It’s too humiliating, because I still wonder if they were true.
“Willow, I just want to know why. You have no idea how heartbroken he’s been.” She grabs my hands again. “I know you have your reasons, I just want to understand. I need to know why you’re not going back so I can help him move on. He still thinks you’re coming home.”
My eyes squeeze shut in some kind of attempt to shield myself from the spears of guilt she’s hurling in my direction. Whatever narrative Parker is feeding her can’t be right. I know he must have some inkling of why I left, even if he’s too fucking stupid to fully comprehend it. He was there that night, he knows exactly what he did—what he said—and my reaction to it.
That night—Parker’s face, his words—float through my mind again, grinding my teeth to hold back the scream I want to hurl in Chelsea’s face. I bite my tongue to swallow the wail.
Tension builds in my temples—the buzz of conversation around the cafe, the clinking of mugs and the chime of theregister overwhelming my senses until a throbbing haze erupts behind my eyelids.
“Willow, can you please just?—”
“I had an abortion,” I say on a hurried breath, the words flying from my mouth so rapidly I can’t catch them before they’re gone, floating in the air between us.
Chelsea rears back, pulling her hands from mine, as if my skin is poisoned—as if I’m diseased. I raise a trembling palm to my mouth, opening my eyes to find her withdrawn from the table, clutching her chest, watching me with a curled lip and a disbelieving gaze.
Her jaw drops, gaping for several long seconds before finally whispering, “You were pregnant?”
I don’t know why I said that.
She was too persistent, there was too much noise, and I think my subconscious decided it would be the easiest reason to throw at her—even though her reaction is a clear indication that I would’ve been better off saying nothing at all.
