Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Christ, everywhere I look, there are small memories of Rory scattered through the whole place. I look up, staring out the bank of windows at the gray Seattle skyline. The clouds are hanging low, threatening rain, mirroring the dark turbulent storm brewing inside me.
Romy thinking she can just walk still doesn’t sit right. The set of rules I drew up months ago in a moment of cautiousness shouldn’t dictate the rest of our lives. She’s mostly right, but she’s entirely wrong about one thing: I don’t care about the rules anymore. Some are meant to be broken, and with that thought, I come up with a plan to get her back.
CHAPTER ONE
romy
Present Day
The glossy tri-fold pamphlet the doctor handed to me two weeks ago is staring at me on the coffee table. It’s sitting right next to a half-empty cup of peppermint tea that’s long gone cold. I’ve memorized every single paragraph, backward and forward. It’s light and airy, giving off a seemingly innocent appearance until you read the title: Knowing Your Options, A Guide to Your Next Steps.
Most people would just think this is a fancy piece of paper, the kind of medical marketing clutter that litters a waiting room. As for me, well, it’s a physical manifestation of what I should and shouldn’t do ever since I saw those two pink lines.
“There goes breaking the cycle, Rosemary Odette Laurent.” The words roll off my tongue. This could have been completely avoidable if the stupid condom didn’t break, and even then, I could have marched my happy ass to the pharmacy the next day, but nope, I didn’t. Now I’m destined to be a single mother, exactly like my mother, minus the leaving your kid behind. Thank god for grandparents. The only problem now is that they’re gone; I’d consider myself fortunate for having them until my mid-twenties.
I still miss them to this day. I still ache to call my grandma on my way home from work or ask my grandpa for advice on whether I’m making a solid investment or not. And now, god, how I could use their wise words and arms wrapped around me right about now.
I stare at the information, pulling my legs tightly to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. My favorite oversized sweater wraps around me, and while it usually offers me comfort, there’s none to be found today. I’ve asked the what-ifs, had late-night panic attacks, and let’s not forget the suffocating weight of a future I didn’t plan for.
Option one: Parenting.
Option two: Adoption.
Option three: Termination.
Each path carries a completely different life and a completely different version of myself. I waited for a sign, a gut feeling, a lightning bolt of clarity, or was hoping and praying in that small crevice of my mind for a certain man to appear out of thin air. You know, the one I broke up with, the one who didn’t say a single thing to make me stay.
I look at the stock photos, and for the first time, I don’t feel intimidated or confused. I just feel exhausted and incredibly annoyed at myself for looking at this thing so many times. Finally, realization washes over me, and the paralysis that’s been plaguing me suddenly snaps. A sudden burst of energy hits, causing me to swing my legs off the couch, feet hitting the solid hardwood with a slap. I reach for the pamphlet, snatching it off the table. My fingers dig into the glossy paper, crumpling it in my fist, and I relish the sharp sound of demolishing it. Never again will I have to stare at the damn thing again.
I stand up and march straight to the kitchen, moving with a purpose I haven’t felt since finding out the news of my unplanned pregnancy. I step hard on the trash can pedal, the lid swings open, and I toss the balled-up paper into the depths of the bin. It lands with a thud, my foot comes off the pedal, and the lid closes shut.
“Good riddance,” I mutter out loud before exhaling a breath so deep it feels like I’ve been holding it for weeks now. My hands are still shaking, my nerves are still rattled, but this time, it’s not from feeling trapped in a corner. It’s from adrenaline. Before I can talk myself out of it, I turn on my heel and grab my phone off the kitchen counter.
My fingers fly across the screen to unlock it, pulling up my contacts, scrolling until I find the name I’m looking for: Harbor View Obstetrics & Gynecology. I don’t hesitate in pressing the call button and lifting the phone to my ear. The line rings, each pulsing tone feeling like a heavy, booming heartbeat echoing in my chest.
“Thank you for calling Harbor View, this is Tracy speaking. How can I help you today?” The receptionist’s voice is warm in her perfect and blissfully ordinary routine. For Tracy, it’s probably just another Tuesday afternoon, another call in a string of hundreds. The mundanity of it all is exactly what I need.