by CJ Martín
A feeling of unease settles low in my belly, as I smack my lips and the taste of sour beer floods my mouth. I don’t even like beer.
As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my muscles scream in protest. My body is sore. Tired. And it feels like I just had sex. Rough sex.
No. No. No.
My worst suspicions are confirmed, as I dodge the used condom thrown carelessly on the floor. Bending at the waist, I grab my panties, jeans, top, and shove them on as fast as possible. I need to get out of here before—
The door opens, and it’s like a freight train steamrolling through my head. Taking a deep breath, I bring my eyes to meet the guy standing in front of me. I don’t recognize him at all; he’s a total stranger. “You’re up.” His voice is unfamiliar, and I will myself to remember something, anything, from last night.
Flashes, vague images pop to life, but they’re fuzzy, as though the dial on the camera has yet to focus.
Panic must be etched across my features, because he holds his hand up in surrender. “Chill.” He takes a baby step forward as I take one back. “How much of last night do you remember?”
My eyes cast down as a wave of humiliation stains my cheeks pink. Nothing. “Bits and pieces.”
He nods. “Yeah, me, too. I guess we were pretty wasted. After leaving Hoozier House, it’s blank.”
The party. Yes. A flash of recognition lights up my brain. Us. Dancing together. Him being a little handsy. Me encouraging it.
What the fuck have I done?
Up until this point, I’ve slept with a total of one person, and I made Tod wait for nearly seven months before I was ready. Now? I jump into bed with a total stranger who could have hurt me, who could have given me a venereal disease, whose name I don’t even know.
I’m spinning out, as the enormity of my bad decision hits full force. Suddenly, there’s not enough breath to satisfy my greedy lungs, and I’m this close to vomiting.
I jerk my attention back to him, and his eyes are wide and confused, probably because there’s a random, hungover girl in his dorm room having a nervous breakdown. I’m guessing this is more than he signed up for.
“What’s your name?” I snap, angry with him, even angrier with myself for having been so stupid.
“Jason.” He dips his head, scratches the back of his neck. “Yours?”
I shouldn’t be offended—for crying out loud, I just asked him the same question—but I feel cheap, used, disposable. “I have to go.” The words rush past my lips as I move toward the door.
“So, no round two?”
My eyes widen, and if looks could kill, he’d be a goner, but only after I made him suffer for his douchebag comment.
He lifts his hands apologetically as though to ward me off. “Sorry, sorry. That was a dick thing to say.”
“This never happened.” I seethe.
“Works for me. See ya around.”
“Hopefully not.” I don’t quite catch his response, because I slam the door in his face.
I’ve not even made it to the corner before I double over, hands on my knees, and wretch. Dry, painful heaves that punish my already weak body, but I welcome the pain, consider it my penance for my poor decision.
And in that moment, I make a vow: no more drinking in excess, no more random parties, no more blackout one-night stands. I’m done experimenting. I’ve had enough.
Jesse could change all he wants, but I’m perfectly happy with who I am.
You deserve better than this, Riley, I remind myself.
Now, I just have to prove it.
19
Riley
My punishment doesn’t stop. No matter how many positive changes I’ve implemented—I stayed in on Thirsty Thursday, refused Liza’s invite to her boyfriend’s house party, and studied one extra hour per night—my debt has not been repaid. Unfair, isn’t it, how one decision, one awful, stupid decision, could alter your path forever?
My period—the same period that I’ve gotten on the third of every month like clockwork since I was twelve—is five days late. It’s hard to explain, but I already know, before any over-the-counter test or doctor confirmation, I know what the result will be. I feel it.
Still, I find myself walking the seven blocks to the nearest pharmacy, crumpled twenty dollar bill stuffed in the pocket of my down coat, to purchase a tiny piece of plastic that will permanently alter the course of my life.
My hair hangs in stringy ropes against my face, serving to cover my downcast eyes as I hand the package to the clerk. I catch the flash of sympathy in her eyes as she speaks, “Eleven forty-nine.”
I avoid her gaze as every doubt and insecurity washes through my veins.
Does she think I’m irresponsible? Does she think I’m just another statistic? Am I?
My fingers shake as she hands me my change, and I stuff the bills back into my coat. Glancing at my phone, I check the time again to be sure that Liza’s still in class, and then hurry back to our dorm to take the most important test of my life.
The test is positive. The pale pink plus sign darkens with each passing minute. Remorse, wicked and cruel, sits low in my belly. After I empty the contents of my stomach, I dry heave two more times, but I’ve got nothing left to give. I’m a hollow shell.
What am I going to do? This will devastate my parents. What will my younger sister think? Is she really going to be an aunt at seven years old? Am I ready to be a mother at nineteen?
Let’s not forget about Jason, the “let’s go for round two” guy I hooked up with while I was blackout drunk. There’s definitely no future between us. I haven’t seen him since the morning I stormed out of his dorm, and I’ve no way of getting in touch with him. I don’t even want to think about what he’ll say or do when he finds out. If he finds out.
And me? How do I feel? Alone. Scared. Fucking terrified. As much as I don’t want to admit this, as selfish as it is, as terrible of a person I might be, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m not ready to be a mother.
Options swirl in my brain, a soupy mixture of words and phrases combined with an odd image remembered from my eleventh grade health class of a short girl with wide eyes, one hand resting on her belly.
I’m at a crossroads; there are no easy paths from here. No right choice. And the worst part is I’m all on my own.
The decision.
I can barely bring myself to think the word, let alone say it. Can I…?
When is it justified, if ever? And is it ever better to end something, a life, before it begins?
So many thoughts race through my head; my mind focused yet unfocused, because it’s just too much to process. What will this child’s life be like? What quality of life will this baby have? Will there be endless custody battles? Court dates? Child support?
Adoption. The word whispers through my despair, a small streak of silver lining the dark cloud that has enveloped me and swallowed me whole.
Will I still be able to attend school? Everyone will know. Am I strong enough, brave enough, to carry this baby to term, only to give him or her away to another family? No. I can’t. I’m not selfless enough.
I’m a monster.
I jump when my phone buzzes loudly.
Jesse.
Knowing I won’t be able to talk to him without breaking down, I make a split second decision to decline the call. My thumb presses the button, and I sink back down onto my comforter.
I’m not ready to talk to him. He’ll know something’s wrong. He always knows. I can’t bear for him to know the truth about me, about what I’ve done, about what I plan to do. At least, not yet.
My mind races, lungs constrict as one singular question circles round and round my mind: Can I do it?
Yes. The devil on my left shoulder whispers. One call and this all goes away. No one ever has to know.
Don’t be crazy, Riley. The angel whispers back from the other. You have options. Your family will support you. Think this through.
But deep down I already
know my decision. With shaky hands, my fingers search for the contact info on the clinic’s website, then press the keys, pushing each button with a sense of raw finality.
The line rings once. Twice. Three times.
My stomach is a knot, fingernails bitten raw, and I’m about to hang up when a tired woman’s voice answers. “Good afternoon. Thank you for calling New Horizons, a Center for Women. How may I direct your call?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and my fist grips the phone tighter. I send up a desperate prayer, begging God for forgiveness, before I speak. “I’d like to make an appointment.”
20
Riley
The appointment is two days away, and I’m hanging on by a thread. It’s Saturday, and I have nothing to distract me from the prison of my mind. Nothing appeals to me. Not escaping into the latest Grisham thriller. Not mindlessly watching TV. Not going for a jog along the river. Nothing.
Since I’ve told no one about… I can’t bring myself to say the word… I find myself craving solitude. I’ve heard a lot of people overuse the expression “no one understands” but it’s truly how I feel. No one could possibly understand what I’m going through, but it’s because I don’t want them to. I don’t want to share my feelings or talk about my decision, because it will shatter what little remains of my heart.
No, this is my cross to bear, and I alone will endure the scars.
The campus library seems like the safest option to hide out until Liza’s left for the weekend. All my friends, but Liza in particular, have good intentions, but it’s hard to appreciate their concerns when I’ve no desire to be around anyone, let alone talk. Yet with each passing day they greet me with more questions: Are you okay, Riley? You seem so down. Why don’t you go out anymore? Have you been crying?
And although I could never, would never, share this secret with anyone, a small part of me hopes someone, anyone, will push until I break, because I don’t know how I’m going to survive this on my own.
I ignored all calls from my mom and Jesse and responded with clipped “Been busy, talk soon” texts. My mom seems satisfied with the response. Jesse, not so much.
I managed to make it to all my classes this past week, but only because after the appointment I assumed I’d have to miss a few days due to the recovery period.
My eyes squeeze shut. Don’t think about that now, Riley. You’re doing the right thing. Just get back to the dorm. Liza will be gone, so there will be no fake smiles, no forced conversation. Just you and yourself. But that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
By the time I make it to the front door of our dormitory, I don’t recall the ten-minute walk from the library. I’m so wrapped up in my head, so disconnected from my surroundings, that a bomb could go off and I wouldn’t even notice. It’s frightening.
After dropping my book bag inside my room, I head down the hall to the communal bathrooms. Inside the stall, I make quick work of tugging down my leggings, and when I look down and see the dark red splotch staining my panties, I lose my breath. Stunned, I stare a few moments longer, and then I cry. I fucking cry.
Thankfully, the dorm is mostly empty on Saturday afternoons; otherwise half my floor would’ve witnessed my emotional breakdown. I stay in the bathroom stall for over an hour, sprawled on the floor, hands holding my stomach, all the while crying like a baby.
Emotions tear through my body, a tsunami of feelings so strong and forceful that I couldn’t stand even if I wanted to.
Sadness.
Guilt.
Emptiness.
Worry.
Remorse.
Relief.
The cold splashes of water do nothing to hide the blotchy patches of my skin or red puffy eyes. My hair is a rat’s nest. A few long stands hang down my back; others poke out in all directions from the messy bun atop my head. I hobble down the hall, movements slow and weak, long waiting for the moment I can crawl into bed and forget everything. Please, I pray, let sleep take this all away.
My head is down as I round the final corner, my hand searching for my ID badge, when I hear his voice. The only voice that could bring me comfort.
“Riley.”
I stop dead in my tracks, and when my eyes find his, so sincere and laced with concern and love, I burst into tears all over again.
21
Jesse
The right thing to do is to keep my damn mouth shut, to let Riley tell me things in her own time when she’s ready, just like she lets me do when I’m upset. But I can’t seem to stop the questions pouring from my mouth, mainly the ones about Jason, because I will kill the bastard who did this to her.
“It was only one time. And we used a condom.” Her voice breaks on the last word. Then she quietly adds, “I think.”
I squeeze my eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the images of her with another man. To erase the look of hurt that lies heavy within her eyes. To rewind time and undo the scars of her mistakes.
“Riley.” My voice strains the word, slow and controlled, because I don’t want to scare her with the rage that flows hot through my veins. “Did he…?” I can’t bring myself to say the word rape, so instead I say, “Force himself on you?”
She shakes her head side to side quickly. “No.”
One of my hands rests on her upper arm, the other reaches forward to cradle her face. I’m not sure how much I should push, but this is Riley, and I fucking love her, and if someone hurt her, so help me God.
“Baby,” I whisper, as my thumb drags across her smooth cheek. “Are you sure? If you were that drunk…” I trail off, not wanting to share the horrible scenarios that are roaring to life in my head: she said no, and he didn’t stop; he drugged her, she passed out and he had sex with her anyway. Fuck.
“No.” She catches my hand in hers. “He didn’t force me. He’s an asshole, not a rapist.”
My eyes stare into hers and say the things I’m too afraid to say. How do you know? You don’t even know him. He took advantage of you.
“I’m sure,” she whispers. “What little memories I have I’ve tried to forget, but I know it was consensual.”
I interlace my fingers with hers and squeeze. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
Her eyes search mine. “And say what? I had a drunken one-night stand with some guy who knocked me up?”
“Yeah.” My nostrils flare. “That’s exactly what you say.” I huff. “This is you and me.” I gesture between us. “We don’t have secrets.”
“Don’t we?” She looks at me for the briefest of moments and then casts her eyes down.
Dread seizes my stomach and twists it into tight knots. She knows. I lick my suddenly dry lips and force exhales through my nose to slow my heartbeat.
Tell her.
Tell her now.
Tell her you love her.
“Riley—”
But she cuts me off, whether intentional or not, I can’t be sure. “I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to think…” She takes a step back and sits on the edge of her bed. Her hands cover her face, and her body begins to shake. She’s crying. Quiet tears.
I move beside her, pull us both onto the bed, and wrap her in my arms. She collapses like dead weight into my lap. My fingers smooth the hair away from her face. I want to do anything—everything—possible to take her pain away.
“I feel like I have no right…” She sobs into my thigh. “I didn’t want this... I was…” Her breath heaves, body shakes, and I band my arms more tightly around her.
“Riley, baby.” I press my lips to her temple.
I feel her head move against my thigh, a slow up and down motion before she says, “I’m glad I don’t have to be alone right now.”
“You’re never alone, baby.” I stroke her hair. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
“Will you…?” She pauses, sniffles, and regains her breath. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
I kiss her temple once more, as I pull her up to face me. “For however long you need.”
22
Riley
Before I’ve even fully pushed myself up, Jesse gathers me in his arms once more. He lays us down on the bed so our bodies press together from fingertip to toe.
So close. So safe. It’s like I’m finally home.
My fingers curl into the back of his shirt, pulling him that much closer. God, if I could crawl inside him I would. Right now he’s the only thing anchoring me. Without him, I’d drift away, succumb to the nothingness that my life has become.
I ugly cry into his shirt, marking the light blue fabric with a hideous stain, and I imagine all of my darkness—my mistakes, poor decisions, regrets—concentrated in that one spot. My body is not my own as the sobs continue. Sounds I didn’t know I was capable of making slip past my lips. All the sadness, the worry, the fear—I let him feel it all and he takes it. He is strong for the both of us. Minutes pass, bleeding into hours, and finally, finally my body has exhausted itself.
I lie nestled alongside Jesse. His arms band tight around me and his hands rub my back in soothing, small circles as his lips graze my forehead. He doesn’t say a word, simply holds me, allowing me time to grieve the loss. The loss of a child I never wanted.
It’s then, in that moment, I confide my darkest secret. “I had an appointment.” My throat is hoarse when I speak, barely a whisper. It might be possible he hasn’t heard me, but I know he has when his arms squeeze me tighter. I continue. “Monday morning.”
“Riley.” His voice soothes, but I don’t deserve the comfort. What type of woman kills her own child? What type of woman feels relief when she miscarries? Me, that’s who. A selfish, heartless monster.
He gently rolls on top of me, plants his palms on either side of my face. When I don’t immediately look at him, his fingertips guide my face back toward his. “Life is about choices, Ry. Some good, some bad. And maybe, just maybe someone—God, the universe, the spirits, whoever—knew you weren’t ready for this choice, so it was made for you. Everything happens for a reason.”
