by Elle Kennedy
He nods. “She’s the best woman I know.”
Emotion clogs my throat. Tucker might’ve lost his dad at a young age, but obviously his mother did everything she could to make up for that. From what he’s told me, she worked her butt off so her son could have a good life. My own mother could take a few lessons from Mrs. Tucker. So could Nana.
“Our childhoods were so different,” I find myself saying.
“And yet we both grew up to be awesome people.”
Him, maybe. Me, I don’t feel so awesome right now. But I keep the thought to myself. “Does your mom want you to move back to Texas after college?”
“Yeah.” He stops in the middle of the path, releasing a tired-sounding breath.
“Do you want to move back?” I ask, then hold my breath as I wait for his reply.
“I don’t know.”
He rakes a hand through his auburn hair, and I track the motion of his hand. His hair looks so soft to the touch. It is soft to the touch—I know this because I’ve run my fingers through it on many occasions. I want to do it again now, but I’m scared that if I touch him, I won’t be able to stop.
“My plan was always to go back after graduation. I want to be close to my mom, take care of her, you know? But when I was there for the holidays…” He groans softly. “There are no opportunities in Patterson. None. It’s a tiny town that hasn’t grown at all in a hundred years. And I wouldn’t even be able to commute to Dallas because it’s a four-hour drive. I originally thought I’d live in Dallas during the week and stay in Patterson on the weekends, but that sounds exhausting the more I think about it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have no clue.”
I wait for him to turn it around on me, ask me what I’m going to do about this baby, but he doesn’t.
“You want to go watch the skaters for a bit?” he suggests.
“Sure.”
We start walking again. His arm is still around me. His familiar scent wafts into my nostrils and makes me ache. I want to kiss him. No, I want to drag him back to wherever he parked his truck and maul him. I want to feel his lips on mine and his hands on my breasts and his cock moving inside me.
The happy squeals of children greet us before we even reach the pond. A bittersweet feeling washes over me as we approach the railing. Dozens of people whiz past us on the shiny surface of the rink. Kids bundled up in colorful coats and scarves and mittens. Families skating together. Couples gliding hand-in-hand.
Tucker reaches for my hand and laces our gloved fingers together, and we stand there watching the rink for a while. My heart skips, because it feels like we’re a real couple. Just two happy people spending the afternoon in the park, enjoying each other’s company.
“Oh shit, see that man over there?” Tucker suddenly says.
I follow his gaze toward a tall, gray-haired man in a blue parka and black skates. “Yeah… Do you know him?”
He squints. “No. For a second I thought I did, but he’s just a lookalike.”
“For who?” I ask curiously.
“Coach Death.”
I almost choke on my tongue. “Okay. Let’s back this up. Did you just say Coach Death?”
His boom of laughter tickles the side of my face. “Yep. Not even joking, darlin’. My very first hockey coach was named Paul Death. Apparently it’s an old British name. Or maybe Welsh? I can’t remember now.”
I shift around so my back is to the railing. “Was he as evil as his name suggests?”
“Nicest dude you’ll ever meet,” Tucker declares.
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. He’s the first person who told me I had potential. I was five at the time. Begged my mom for hockey lessons, so she drove me to this arena an hour away because Patterson doesn’t have a rink. Coach Death popped a squat, shook my hand, and said, ‘Yup-yup, I see it, kid. You’ve got potential.’” Tucker chuckles. “That was his catchphrase—yup-yup. I started saying it around the house and it drove Mom crazy.”
I laugh. “So Coach Death was your idol growing up?”
“Pretty much.” He slants his head. “What about you? Who was your idol?”
“I had five.” I grin at him. “They were called NSYNC.”
His jaw drops. “Oh no, darlin’, say it ain’t so. You were into boy bands?”
“So into them it’s not even funny. Nana took me to an NSYNC concert when I was twelve. I swear I had my first orgasm that night.”
He throws his head back and hoots.
“I told you, it’s not funny,” I grumble. “I was obsessed. I used to doodle Sabrina Timberlake in all my school notebooks.”
“I honestly can’t picture that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re so serious all the time. When I picture you as a kid, I see you reading textbooks for fun and studying for the SATs four years in advance.”
A wry smile tugs on my mouth. “Yeah, I did all that too. But I always made time for Justin. I’d take study breaks and kiss his picture. With tongue.”
Tucker hoots. “Jesus, Sabrina. I don’t know if I can be with you anymore.”
Just like that, my good humor fades. Not because of what he said—I know he’s joking—but because… Because of the pink or blue elephant, damn it.
Tucker and I had only been dating for a few months before this baby bomb. Would we have even had a future? I love being with him. It’s easy being with him, easier than it’s ever been with anyone. I was starting to see a future for us, but what about him? What if he’d gotten sick of me and wanted to dump me?
If we keep this baby, then the future is set. We’ll be a part of each other’s lives, whether we want to or not. Whether he wants it or not.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in concern.
I gulp through the lump in my throat. “I…” My face crumples. “I haven’t made a decision yet.”
His voice turns hoarse. “I know.”
“I’m…scared.” I stare down at my boots. “I’m really scared, Tuck.”
“I know,” he says again. Then he rubs his face. “So am I.”
My gaze flies to his. “You are?”
“Are you kidding me? I’m goddamn terrified.” A groan slips out. “I’m trying to be strong for you here, Sabrina. I’m really fucking trying.”
I blink back tears. “I’m usually the strong one. But right now I don’t feel strong at all.”
He draws me into his arms and suddenly we’re clinging to each other again. I’m pretty sure everyone on the ice is staring at us, wondering why we’re power-hugging like a couple of maniacs, but I don’t care. I’m on emotional overload, and maybe that’s what drives me to say, “I don’t think I want to keep it.”
Tucker eases back slightly. His expression is somber. “Are you sure?”
“No.”
“Then you need to take some more time to think about it,” he says softly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble.
After a long beat, he reaches for my hand again. “Come on, let’s keep walking. I’ll tell you more about Coach Death and you can tell me all about how you French-kissed your Timberlake posters.”
I croak out a laugh. God. This guy… just… this guy. I want to thank him. Kiss him. Tell him how amazing he is.
But all I do is twine my fingers through his and let him guide me back to the path.
22
Sabrina
The phone feels like a brick in my hands. I have to schedule the D&C soon or I’ll be outside my window. I should’ve done it a month ago, damn it. It’s nearly the end of February and I’m fifteen weeks along. I don’t know why I’ve let it go so long.
Well, I do know why. Because I can’t make up my mind. Half the time, I think I’ll be better off without a child. The rest of the time, I can’t get the image of Beau’s casket out of my head.
Wetness dribbles down my cheeks and I swipe the tears away with an angry hand. Great. I’m crying in public. You would’ve though
t I cried all my tears at Beau’s memorial. That was hideously brutal.
I knew it was a bad idea to study at Starbucks today, considering how hormonal I’ve been lately, but I didn’t want to be at home in case I finally worked up the nerve to call the clinic. I still haven’t told Nana about the pregnancy and I didn’t want her accidentally on purpose finding out.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m completely without direction. I haven’t seen Tucker since our day in the park, and I stopped answering his texts about a week ago. These days, I can’t focus on anything other than the impending decision that’s hanging over my head.
And it’s not just Tucker I’ve been ducking. I’ve only been to one weekly lunch with Hope and Carin since Beau’s death. I’ve blamed it on increased work hours, but I don’t think they’re buying it.
“Sabrina?”
My head jerks up. Joanna Maxwell is standing in front of my table. She’s got a cup of coffee in one hand and a stylish white clutch in the other. Draped in a royal-blue wool coat, she looks every inch the Broadway star that she’s going to be.
“Joanna.” I leap to my feet and give her a hug. “How are you?” Her bones feel about as sturdy as twigs in my embrace. I give her another squeeze before letting her go.
She smiles wanly. “Okay.”
“What are you doing in Boston? Is your show traveling?”
“No, it’s still playing in Manhattan.” A slow flush creeps up her neck. “I…ah…quit.”
Shock silences me for a second. “You quit?”
“Yes. I had an opportunity to do something else and I took it.” Her words are a mixture of defiance and embarrassment, as if she’s tired of having to justify her choices, which she certainly doesn’t have to do with me.
“Well, good for you.” But I’m confused, because when I hung out with Beau, he said that Broadway was Joanna’s dream.
“Right? I’m young, so if there’s ever a time for me to try new things, it’s right now.”
Trying new things terrifies me, but I nod anyway because I’m not the girl who lost her beloved brother.
I’m just the girl who’s knocked up.
“Absolutely. What are you doing?”
“I’m cutting a demo,” she admits.
I’m not part of the Briar arts crowd, so I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Oh. Cool.”
The bewilderment must show on my face, because Joanna adds, “It’s pretty much a sample that I can send to various A&R people in the industry. They listen to it, and, hopefully, someone signs me and I get a record deal. If that doesn’t work, I’ll sing covers and post them on YouTube, maybe try to gain visibility that way. It’s all kind of up in the air.”
“That’s great,” I tell her, but in my head, I don’t understand.
Why in the world would anyone leave a paying singing gig for something that seems risky as hell? If I had a good job right now, maybe I’d keep this baby. I think that if I’d gotten pregnant at the end of law school instead of the beginning, I’d view things differently.
“It’s terrifying, actually. I had to get a job waiting tables, which I’ve never done before. But there’s no other way to pay my bills. And by leaving Broadway now, I might never be able to go back.”
“I, ah, I—” I stutter. The potential of losing everything I planned for all my life because of this pregnancy has paralyzed me. Joanna sounds like she purposely jumped off a cliff with no safety net. “I hope you follow your dream,” I finish lamely.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” She sighs. “And despite what my parents believe, I’m not having an existential crisis because Beau died. In fact, he’d totally be on board with this, don’t you think?”
Beau loved his sister, so yeah, if this made her happy, then he would have supported her. “He’d want you to be happy,” I agree.
Joanna bites her lower lip. “Did you know that Beau didn’t really want to go pro? I mean, the team sucked last year and he had offers to go to other schools, maybe win another championship. That would’ve put him in a better position to be drafted, but he loved his team and he wasn’t interested in playing at the next level. Beau was all about being happy.” She starts to choke up, and I pray to God those tears don’t spill over, because if she cries, I’m going to start sobbing too.
Pregnancy has turned me into a weepy, emo bitch.
“Then you should do this,” I say firmly.
“I know.”
She wipes her face with her sleeve while I dig into my purse to see if I can find a tissue. There’s a crumpled one in the corner, but it’s clean, and Joanna gratefully takes it.
“He really liked you,” she says in a soft voice. “You guys could’ve made a great couple, but maybe it’s better that you didn’t fall in love with him.” Her face collapses as the grief she’s been holding at bay swamps her. “Then you wouldn’t be a mess like I am.”
Without a word, I guide her to the table, drag an empty chair next to mine, and then sit beside her while she cries. A few of the other patrons give us weird looks. I return their nosiness with a death glare.
Fortunately, Joanna composes herself in no time. Soon she’s blowing her nose and casting me a chagrined look out from under the veil of her hair. “Fuck. I hadn’t cried all day,” she mumbles. “It was a new record.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t even get out of bed.”
“I did that for the first couple of weeks, and then I woke up and thought, Beau would kick my ass if he saw me shitting my life away. So here I am, trying something stupid and new.”
“Doesn’t sound so stupid to me.” And it doesn’t anymore. Joanna is young. If pursuing a different career in music is her dream, better to chase it now than later.
“You really believe that?”
“Of course I do.”
She stuffs the tissue in her coat pocket. “Beau always said you were so driven. I figured this was the sort of thing you’d look down on.”
I frown. “You make me sound like a callous asshole.”
“No. I didn’t mean it that way. It was a compliment.” She pauses. “I was the same way. I had everything planned out—I’d get a degree in performing arts, get a fantastic role in a Broadway play, and ride my star to the top of the marquee. Then Beau died and all of it just seems unimportant now, you know what I mean?”
I think I might.
“Anyway, I better get going.” She leans forward and hugs me again. This time her grip is surprisingly fierce. “Take care of yourself, Sabrina. I hope you live your life making yourself happy.”
Yeah. If only I knew what path that required.
*
The next day, I find myself in front of my advisor’s office. Professor Gibson has her head bent over her desk, grading papers. I knock softly so I don’t startle her.
“Sabrina, come in.” She waves me forward with a welcoming smile. “How’s your last semester going?”
“Easy. I know how to take a test now.”
“Or you’ve trained yourself to think more critically and be able to parse through scads of information to find the simple tenets that underpin all theories?”
“Or that.” I laugh as I take a seat.
“Are you excited about Harvard this fall or looking forward to summer break?”
“Harvard, definitely. I’m going to miss this place.” I take in Professor Gibson’s cozy office with its oversized stuffed chair that she gets recovered every four years, and the towering stack of books that threaten to tumble over at any second but never do. She has pictures everywhere—with her students, with her husband.
And it hits me. The reason I’ve never thought about having kids is because from the minute I met Professor Gibson, I wanted to be her. She’s smart, successful, kind-hearted, and so well respected. Everywhere she goes, people look up to her. And for a kid like me, from the South Boston slums, that sort of admiration was a dream—one that I’ve pursued relentlessly here at Briar.
I don’t know an
y female with a child who’s as successful as Professor Gibson. Which I know, intellectually, is wrong, because there are thousands of mothers who are doctors, lawyers, bankers, and scientists. Even Hope and Carin talk about motherhood, someday. But that someday is in the nebulous future for them, whereas it’s right fucking now in my belly.
“Do you wish you had kids?” I blurt out as I stare at the picture of her and her husband standing in front of some ancient castle.
Professor Gibson narrows her eyes, and somehow, she knows. I can see it in her face.
“Oh, Sabrina.” There’s a question implicit in her sigh.
I nod.
She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, all traces of judgment are gone. But I saw that initial flicker of disappointment, and it stings.
“Sometimes,” she says in response to my question. “Sometimes I do, and sometimes I’m glad that I don’t. I’ve been the special auntie to my brother’s three kids, and that’s filled most of my mothering instincts. I have my students, and that’s tremendously fulfilling, but I won’t lie and say I haven’t wondered what it would be like to have a child of my own.”
“Do you think I can do it? Have a kid and make it through Harvard?”
She makes a small, sad sound at the back of her throat. “I don’t know. Your first year is time-consuming and overwhelming, but you’re very smart, Sabrina. If there was anyone who could do this, it would be you. But it may mean sacrifices. Maybe you don’t graduate summa cum laude—”
I wince, because being at the top of my law school class is definitely one of my goals.
“Or Law Review—”
I swallow a moan of dismay.
“—But you’ll still be a Harvard grad. I have no doubt about that.” She pauses. “What does the father say?”
“It’s up to me. He supports me either way.”
The smile that spreads is genuine. “Ah, you’ve got a good one then.”
I do. Tucker has been very good to me, and that’s part of the problem. If I keep this baby, I’m impacting his life in a thousand different ways—and not all of them are good.
“I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, whatever it is.”
