“What happened?” he asks, handing me a whiskey on the rocks. I’m not a huge fan of hard liquor, especially in light of what’s going on with my dad, but I need to calm my nerves, so I drain the glass and pace his hardwood floors.
“The condom broke,” I say aloud for the first time.
Ace nods. “Been there. Fucking Trojan needs to up their quality control.”
I set the glass down on his coffee table and collapse into his sofa, placing my head in my hands. “How is this happening again?” I mutter.
“Is she freaking out?” I feel the couch dip as Ace sits beside me. He’s the only friend who knows that Autumn had an abortion before.
I look up at him. “I haven’t told her. I … it just happened, and her mom was home and … I ran out.”
Ace grins. “You had sex with her mom home?”
“Focus, man!” I shout, and he reaches out to place a hand on my shoulder.
“Bro, you got this. Just go down to the pharmacy and grab her a Plan B pill.”
Plan B.
Why the hell didn’t I think about Plan B? Relief crashes through me for a split second before it’s overshadowed with disappointment. I don’t want her to take a Plan B pill. Just like deep down I didn’t want her to get the abortion. We’re two consenting adults and the condom broke … whatever comes of it should be left alone … right?
But it’s Autumn’s choice too, and as much as I may be ready for the adult consequence of our actions, she is not. Her mother is sick and she is in a career crisis. This will stress her out. I can already see the look on her face when I tell her. She’ll close back down, never touch me again. But still, I owe it to her to tell her and give her the options.
“Plan B,” I say, turning it over in my mind.
“Tonya at CVS is really discreet.” He winks at me.
I roll my eyes. “How many times have you done this?”
He puts a finger to his lips. “You don’t want to know.”
* * *
I tapthe packet of Plan B in my pocket nervously before knocking softly on Autumn’s front door. After picking it up from the CVS, I got Taco Bell and ate in my car while I went over fifteen different versions of whatever I would say to her. Then I texted her telling her that we needed to talk. I’m pretty sure I freaked her out.
She opens the door in her pajamas, hair tied in a top knot, and frowns at me. “Everything okay?”
I nod, motioning to the porch swing. She shuts the front door and follows me outside, the frown still in place. She sits next to me wringing her hands together, and I feel awful that she must be worrying about what I have to say.
“I don’t know how to say this so I’m just going to blurt it out,” I mumble.
“Owen, what’s going on?” Her voice cracks.
“Tonight … before … in your room … the condom broke.”
Her mouth forms a little “Oh” and her eyes grow wide. “I see.” She shifts nervously, and just like that I can see every awful memory of what happened before flood her face. Post-traumatic stress is a very real thing, and it has a long memory.
I press on with my speech, pulling the Plan B out of my pocket and laying it in her lap. “I don’t know where you are in your cycle, but I wanted you to have this and to know that I support whatever you want to do.”
Out of all fifteen versions I ran through in the Taco Bell parking lot, this was what I settled on. It didn’t make her feel guilty; it was supportive; and it didn’t press my opinions on her.
She frowns, her eyebrows drawing together. “So, this is where you were tonight?”
I nod, swallowing hard, praying she won’t close up and leave me.
“It happened again…” she breathes.
I nod, a little relieved that she’s talking to me, processing things.
