When I finished, I stuffed it into a Ziploc baggie, flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and then set a timer on my phone.
Then I waited—a minute felt like an entire hour.
The timer on my cell phone beeped. After sucking in a breath, I picked up the test—the strip had turned pink.
Chills rippled over my body, and my stomach plummeted to my feet. No, no, no—this couldn’t be happening.
I was pregnant.
Childishly, I shut my eyes, squeezing them tight—please let this be some kind of nightmare—and then I glanced at the stick again.
Yep, still preggers.
With a groan, I opened the door to find Darcy staring at me.
“Well?”
I held up the urine-soaked proof.
Her face fell. “Oh, Poppy…”
“Yeah.”
“Call Bettie—she’ll know what do.”
And that was when the reality slapped me across the face—I was having my stepfather’s baby.
***
An hour later I was lying on my bed while Darcy marched back and forth across the room. I wasn’t sure which one of us was having the bigger panic attack.
Me, I think.
Nothing felt real at the moment.
There were so many things to consider, and my mind was racing. What about my future? I couldn’t go to grad school with a baby in tow. Could I?
And I was planning a move the country, away from my family and friends. How on earth would I raise a child without a support system in place?
What about my mother? And Sebastian? The blasted contract they’d signed? So much for keeping this relationship discreet.
Not to mention the biggest realization of all—I was no longer responsible for just my own life. Now I had a child to look out for. The responsibility was overwhelming, settling on my shoulders like a weight.
“All right, you’ve had some time to process.” She tossed the phone to me. “It’s Bettie time.”
“So I can say…what, exactly? ‘Congrats, you’re going to be a grandmother, and bonus—the father is your husband’?” I buried my head in my hands. “You’ll be a grandma and a stepmom—all in one. I’ll be having my own stepsister as well as my daughter.”
“Well, maybe not that.”
I winced. This was a huge mess.
For the hundredth time, I wished my best friend was here, but she’d gone to a conference with her boss. Kate and Malcolm were staying in San Francisco together while they learned about marketing techniques. It sounded like an excuse to take a vacation to me.
She must’ve taken a hundred selfies—the two of them eating sourdough sandwiches, holding hands on the beach, smiling together at a romantic candlelit dinner.
I wanted to call her and blab everything, but didn’t want to put a damper on her trip. When she got back a week from now, I’d still be pregnant. An ugly part of me was jealous—she’d found the perfect guy, a great job—things were coming together for Kate, while my life had just been bombed.
Not that I begrudged her even a moment of happiness—Kate deserved every second of bliss. Her dad was a jerk who’d never had time for her. Now she had a man who put her first.
“Talk to me. What have you decided to do?”
Darcy sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to my belly. Until Kate returned to claim her best-friend crown, Darcy was all I had, and she was sworn to secrecy.
I swallowed.
“I’m having the baby.” Surprisingly, the decision had been easy, although everything else was still up in the air.
“Are you looking into adoption?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think I can give the baby up.”
It’d be a good solution to an uncertain situation. Adoption would allow me the freedom to pursue my dreams, but somehow it didn’t sound right. Maybe it was selfish, but I couldn’t let a piece of myself go. If I didn’t know where he or she was—it’d feel like part of me was missing.
And I wouldn’t get to have the child in my life. My mom said she loved being a mother. It was the best experience she’d ever had. I didn’t want to miss out on it, even if this wasn’t the most convenient time. After all, she hadn’t planned on having me, and it’d turned out pretty well.
“Bettie should be here—not me.”
“I’ll tell her soon, but I can’t face my mother until I’ve told Sebastian.”
That was a conversation I was really dreading.
Chapter Twelve
Sebastian
Something was wrong.
Her face was a pale oval, and Poppy refused to meet my eyes.
After walking in the door, Poppy kissed my cheek, but didn’t look happy to see me. Usually, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her lips to mine, as though we hadn’t seen each other in years.
It didn’t make sense—we’d been apart for days. I’d been racking up a lot of studio time lately, and schoolwork demanded more of her attention. I got the sneaking suspicion she was avoiding my calls. Somehow, she never managed to be available when I rang, although she’d reply with a text or two.
Eventually, I got through to her and invited her over for takeout and a movie. Poppy said she wasn’t up for a night out, which suited me fine. We had to get to the bottom of this, and I didn’t want to be interrupted by a selfie-seeking fan.
Fuck it all. Was she breaking up with me?
And why wouldn’t she? Every time she displayed the slightest emotion, I withdrew. Not to mention our lives were heading in two opposite directions.
I vowed to take the news in a full-on stiff-upper-lip style. No, I wouldn’t beg her to stay with me a bit longer, or become a bastard. We’d part as good friends. I’d at least have that much of her—completely forgoing a connection with Poppy was unthinkable. Instead, I’d stay on the edges of her life, keep my eye on her until she settled down with another man—a better one. One day, I’d be at her wedding, watching her walk down the aisle into some wanker’s arms.
Even if the thought gutted me. Get it together, mate.
“What’s on your mind, love?”
“I have something to tell you, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”
Bloody hell, had she gone and found another bloke already?
“What’s his name?” My plan to handle this properly failed right out of the gate.
“Huh?”
“What’s the bloke’s name?”
“Oh, you think… No.” She burst out laughing, and it had a hysterical edge. “I’m not dating anyone but you.”
“Good.” And because I’m a prat, I criticized the terminology she’d used. “This is a fling, not a romance.”
See above, re: withdrawal. Honestly, it’s pathological.
Her face paled, eyes large and luminous, and I knew something was wrong.
“Are you okay?” I pulled her into another hug.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
I didn’t believe her. “Not to worry. We’ll have a good time while it lasts.”
“Just a good time,” Poppy whispered.
“Mark my words—in the future, you’ll be glad you kicked me to the curb.”
“Will I?” She pulled back to study my face, her features solemn.
Enough cloak and dagger. “Anything you want to tell me, love?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. Tell me why I’ll be happy to be rid of you one day.”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
I’d been intending to come clean with her for weeks, but managed to put it off. I didn’t want to destroy her image of me, hated digging up my skeletons and bringing them out into the light of day again, but Poppy deserved to know who and what she was dealing with.
If she was starting to fall for me, I had an obligation to stop her. Then I wouldn’t be tempted to beg her to stay and save me from my self-destructive nature.
“Yes, I’m ready.” She exhaled. “What’s your big, scary story?”
“As I’ve sai
d, you’d do well to avoid me, love. I’m bad news—always have been, always will be. It’s time I told you everything.”
“Everyone’s heard the story, Sebastian.” Poppy’s tone was gentle. I appreciated her respect for my privacy.
When Lovesick aired, they’d produced a segment on my past with most of the gory details, like a recap before the start of a scripted show. I declined to be interviewed about the night Shellie died, although I’d been open about my addiction and recovery efforts. Talking about her death was too painful and raw.
“You’ve heard the public version of the story, but it isn’t the whole truth. I want to give you the unfiltered version, without excuses. I haven’t discussed this with anyone other than my NA group.” Even thinking about what I’d done filled me with shame.
“I’m ready.” She sat on the couch. “I’d read you had a drug habit long before the tour.”
I lit a cigarette because nicotine calmed my nerves, then opened a window so I wouldn’t smoke her out of here.
“Yeah, I’d gotten into heroin while playing gigs in L.A. In between performances, I worked as a busboy. And I felt invincible—people were coming to our concerts. Word of mouth was good. I was on the threshold of being discovered. I’d stay up night writing, then go to work, and play the next evening. I was so stressed out that I didn’t sleep for days. And one night, all the work paid off—the band got a contract, and I’ve never been the same since.”
It’d been sheer luck. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying—a certain amount of talent goes into being discovered, of course, but most of it is being in the right spot at the right time. The album went double platinum, and I was on top of the fucking world.
Long ago, I’d lost the delusions superstardom can confer on a person. I was nothing special and didn’t buy my own hype anymore.
I turned to face her, placing my back against the wall.
“Then came the Insanity record.” Poppy dipped her head in acknowledgment.
“That’s the one, and it’s properly named.” My life had been bedlam at the time. “All of my memory’s a bit hazy. We did this year-long world tour—hardly any breaks, pushing from one city to the next. The schedule was grueling, and I barely had time to eat or sleep.”
It was supposed to be an adventure, but Tokyo didn’t look so different from Cleveland when staring at the four walls of a hotel room.
My heroin habit spiraled out of control. While we traveled, I wrote songs for the next album. I’d convinced myself that narcotics enhanced my imagination, relaxed me enough to write, but it was justification to use.
“I was blowing through an absurd amount of cash—buying guitars, cars, anything I took a fancy to. My bandmates were the same way, but the most expensive thing we paid for was H.”
Thinking about how much money I’d shot into my own arm made me want to travel back in time and slap some sense into my younger self. I’d thought the good times would never stop, and I’d always be rolling in it. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t insolvent—I still got royalties, but not as much as I used to.
“Heroin helped you get through it?”
“Exactly. At first, it was this incredible rush, and then this peaceful, mellow flow afterward. But I needed more and more smack to get the same effect, which is why so many people overdose on it. I’m lucky I didn’t wind up dead in some random hotel room.”
Poppy nodded. “My mom did the opposite with coke—she used to stay up for days at a time.”
“I get it—a couple of my mates used uppers, too.” Coke probably gave Bettie an edge, kept her awake so she could get more done.
“I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for both of you—working so hard for your careers. The few times I’ve pulled all-nighters, I was exhausted. When I got home after the test, I almost didn’t make it to the bed before I collapsed. And you both repeated the cycle again and again.”
Another consequence of the abuse was the impact on friends and family members—the collateral damage of our use. Poppy was familiar with the fallout, but somehow she was still compassionate.
“At least your body wasn’t full of junk. I inflicted this on myself.”
“You’re clean now.”
“Yeah, now—at this moment—but it could change in a heartbeat.” The fear of falling off the wagon ate at me. It was chilling to know I was one wrong decision away from another disaster. The next time I might not make it out alive.
Enough stalling—time for the hard truth.
“Shellie died right after the tour ended. We’d flown back to L.A. from Hong Kong.” Looking back on it, I was desperately naïve. “But the trip and heroin took a toll on our relationship—we’d drifted apart. I was a bastard who couldn’t keep my hands off girls backstage. I don’t know why Shellie put up with me.”
When I first started my rock-and-roll lifestyle, I’d gone through groupies like water—moving from one to the next, as though they were disposable. The power had gone to my head, but Shellie had stuck by my side, even though I was an utter dick at times. If it weren’t for me, she would’ve had a long and happy life.
“She must’ve loved you.”
“And look where it got her.” I shook my head. “To fix our problems, I decided to propose. I told myself after we got married, I’d become a better man, one she could be proud of.”
I ran a hand through my hair. I’d thought it many times, replaying the conversations we’d had—what I could remember, anyway. All the while, I was looking for where we’d gone wrong, the tipping point.
“She came out of the bathroom one night backstage at the arena, holding up the stick—it’d turned pink.”
Poppy gasped, and her gaze dropped to the floor. She must’ve anticipated where this story was going.
“Shellie was so fucking excited—and me, too, at first. Instead of giving her the engagement ring on the stage like I planned, I dropped to one knee on the spot, and she accepted.”
My eyes stung, although I didn’t have the right to blubber about this.
“After the concert, Shellie said we both needed to get clean. Since the tour was up, she wanted to check into rehab with me. She’d read somewhere that heroin can cause spontaneous abortions, along with a whole host of complications.”
“That’s why my mom quit cold turkey when she found out she was pregnant with me.”
I nodded. “It’s what I should’ve done, too. Shellie said we couldn’t be good parents if we were high all the time, and she needed my help to get sober. She was one hundred percent in the right, but I flat-out refused.”
She gasped. “Oh, Sebastian. So, when she…committed suicide, Shellie was pregnant.”
“Yeah.” My throat ached. “We had a massive blowout—screaming and swearing at each other. After throwing the ring back at me, Shellie stormed off, and I didn’t see her for three weeks. She stayed with a friend of hers who was a nurse and detoxed. I wished I’d left her alone—if I did, Shellie and our child might still be alive.” I ran a hand down my face. “After cooling off, I begged her for another chance and convinced her to come home with me. I promised her I’d get clean.”
“But it didn’t last long, did it?”
I laughed without humor. “No, I didn’t even make it through two whole days. I’d hidden a stash in the kitchen and shot up while she was out having lunch with her sister. Shellie was furious when she found me. And I said awful things to her—called her a gold digger, and worse. I even accused Shellie of fucking my bandmates—said I wasn’t even sure the baby was mine.”
Poppy glanced away, but I kept going, dragging every bit of this sordid tale out into the light.
“I’m the piece of shite who was shagging girls left and right, but I accused her of being unfaithful. Then I kicked her out, said I never wanted to see her again.” A wave of self-loathing rolled through me. “I cared more about drugs than my own child or my fiancée.”
“Sebastian, you weren’t in your right mind.”
“I’m
a junkie, but that doesn’t absolve me.” I didn’t deserve the compassion. What I’d done was unforgivable.
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“Why? It’s true.”
“But it isn’t all you are, and Shellie made her own choices.”
Tears streamed down her face. I didn’t know how she could be so kindhearted after what I’d admitted to. When I’d confessed in a meeting, I’d seen the disgust on their faces. It was strange, but in a way, it felt good to empty my soul, purge myself and accept their condemnation.
“When you’re struggling to get clean, it’s easy to relapse, and I gave her a big push, right over the edge. Shellie was lost and alone—hurt from my betrayal and desperate. I set this whole thing in motion. According to the coroner’s report, she’d gotten high before she killed herself.” I’d lost track of how many times I’d read the damn thing, memorizing the lines, looking for clues.
“Shellie injected herself. Not you. And then she stepped in front of a car afterward.”
“I should’ve had her back—always. But I turned on Shellie, blamed her for getting pregnant, like she’d somehow done it herself.”
“You didn’t want to be a father?” She placed a hand over her mouth, as though she were going to be sick.
“I still don’t. I’m not fit to be a father.”
“I see.” Her breath was ragged. “So their deaths pushed you to get sober?”
I stubbed out the cigarette. “Yeah, after the police told me what happened, I packed my crap and went straight to a rehab center. The cops and the coroner agreed to withhold her pregnancy from the press. But I’d become infamous, the record label passed on our next album, the band broke up, and you know the rest of this story.”
The anniversary of Shellie’s death was rapidly approaching. Every year, the guilt ate me up inside, as it should. I needed to visit her grave with a bouquet of flowers—even if it was a futile gesture, at least I’d be doing something to honor her memory. Their memory.
Poppy was silent for the longest time, no doubt processing everything I’d said.
Wild Ride (Let it Ride Book 2) Page 9
