“Damn,” I mutter to myself, before heading around to the side of the building.
The first window I try is locked, too, but the second opens with ease the moment I push up on the glass. I glance around, and when I’m sure that nobody’s watching, I shove the window completely open and hoist myself inside.
It looks exactly the same as the last time I was in here—the last day I was buried deep inside her.
I know it’s a touch creepy, but I pick up a pillow off her bed and bring it up to my face. Her flowery scent invades my senses as I inhale deeply.
It makes me miss her even more.
After I put the pillow down, I make my way to the small desk across the room and pull a pick from my pocket and write “Miss You” on the back of it. I place it on the desk, along with a piece of notebook paper with a single song title on it: ““What If I Was Nothing” —All That Remains.”
My hope is that, no matter what she’s pissed at me about, she’ll forgive me and understand that I’m not going anywhere.
I’m humming the song, thinking of how accurate the lyrics are in describing how I feel toward Frannie, when I glance down into the small wicker bin beside her desk. A small pink box with the word pregnancy catches my eye. I suck in a quick breath.
“What the fuck?” I question out loud, bending down and pulling the box out of the trash.
The words pregnancy test make my eyes widen and my heart does a double thump in my chest. I recall our little incident in the woods, knowing the fact that I came inside her, if Frannie is pregnant, that baby belongs to me.
I swallow hard and lick my suddenly dry lips. I told her I wasn’t ready to be a father. If she’s pregnant, no wonder she’s not speaking to me. I probably seem like a complete fucking asshole right now.
The urgent need to find out if she is pregnant rushes through me. I could try calling her, but seeing as how she’s not even returning my texts, she’s probably even less likely to take a call from me.
I flip the wicker basket upside down, dumping all of the contents on her floor. Nothing but paper and other pieces of trash litter the ground.
No test.
I jam my fingers into my hair, gripping handfuls of it in my hands as I rush into the bathroom and find another trashcan. I flip that one over as well, thinking it’s empty, too, until a ball of toilet paper makes a small thud as it drops onto the wood floor.
My hands shake and I reach down to unroll the paper, revealing a small plastic stick. I let out a slow breath through pursed lips as I flip the stick over in my hands, exposing the little results window. Two pink lines appear, clear as day.
I rush back into the main room, and rummage around in the mess I’ve made on the floor before I find the box. My eyes quickly scan the back panel until they find confirmation that two pink lines mean that Frannie’s pregnant.
Pregnant.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
I brace myself against the desk, and I clamp my eyes shut.
Fuck.
Shit.
Dammit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as my anxiety levels hit a new all-time high and every muscle in my body shakes. It was situations like these that drove me to prescription drugs in the first place—the feeling of being lost in a situation that I can’t change.
The need to use something to help me relax crawls through my skin, turning on its seductive promise to make me feel better. The thought of giving in hits me hard. I could turn away and leave this place: go find something that will settle my nerves and make me forget.
As soon as that last thought rolls through my brain, I realize what will happen if I walk out of here. Not only will I be walking away from sobriety, I’ll be walking away from Frannie, basically confirming that she was right not to trust me. That I’m a selfish bastard who runs from things, who hides in a world where things stay foggy just so I don’t have to deal with my problems. It would kill me if she thought of me that way.
I meant what I told her the other day: I want to be a stronger man for her.
Standing in that little cottage, the need to stay clearheaded hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. I don’t want to pretend. I want to deal with the situation. I want Frannie to let me in and allow me to help her get through this.
Together.
“Say It” — Blue October
All weekend long, I ignore every message Tyke sends me. One thing my blackmailer had correct is that I’m nothing special to him, because if I really mean something to him, he wouldn’t be lip-locking with Josie Sullivan the moment I’m out of sight. If I were special, kissing her wouldn’t have crossed his mind.
I turn my phone on and swipe my finger over the screen as the train approaches the Cincinnati terminal. A new message catches my eye, and I click on the little envelope. The anonymous emailer has gotten a little braver. They haven’t allowed so much time to elapse between contacts this time. The subject line of this email simply reads: It’s Time.
By now you know that I’m capable of digging up dirt. You should know that I’ve done my research on you as well. Don’t think I don’t know exactly who your father is, and how much money he’s worth. Between Tyke Douglas and yourself, you should be able to come up with enough money to allow me to live a pretty comfortable lifestyle. So here is my demand. I want two million dollars, in cash, brought to me by the end of this week. That should be ample time to pool your funds. On Friday I will email you again with instructions on where to leave the money. If you’re thinking of blowing off my request, Dr. Mead, I’d think again. I’m sure a nice woman like you has plenty of skeletons in her closet if someone chose to dig around enough.