LOVE ‘EM(109)

I push up from the floor and hug Cassie goodbye. She’s still half-glued to the television, but she does manage to smile up at me and squeeze my legs one last time before I head to the door.

On the way home, my mind replays what Sam said about how I turned out all right, even without my dad.

Do I like me?

Yeah. I do.

If I choose to have this baby, will she like herself? Will she grow up all right if Danny takes off?





I push through the front door of the shelter. Lights flash. I put my hands up, shielding my eyes.

What on Earth?

The pine oil scent that usually dominates the halls mingles with an overly strong floral perfume.

A woman shoves a microphone into my face. “Ms. Clark? Can you tell us your side of the story?”

I stop, pulling back. “What?”

A photographer kneels in front of me, snapping photos at Olympic speed. Another guy adjusts a setting on his shouldered camera. Camera? Great. Like I haven’t had enough of those lately.

The petite woman swipes a swath of hair from in front of her face. “Your side of the story? Creeper Gate?”

I step back. “Creeper Gate? Who are you?”

She tosses a disgusted look to her cameraman. “She doesn’t know who I am. Kids these days; they don’t know anything.”

I shake my head and push between them. “No comment.”

In Cindy’s office, I lean against the inside of the door. “There’s a news crew in the hallway.”

Cindy spins in her chair. “What?”

I hook my thumb to point over my shoulder. “They accosted me just inside the door, asking me about something called Creeper Gate.”

She shoos me out of her way. I shut the door behind her, but her voice comes through loud and clear. “You cannot be in here. I’ll call the police if you don’t leave these premises immediately.”

When she returns she grabs the remote and turns on the small flat screen hanging above the file cabinet. “Hey, before I forget, Danny’s called, asking for you, no less than ten times today. And I know what this Creeper Gate is about. There’s been an—incident, apparently. I’ll have a meeting later this afternoon to inform everyone of what procedures they need to take, if any. I’m waiting for the legal department to get back to me.”

The legal department? I type CREEPER GATE into the browser on my phone.

My stomach curdles.

A photo of David with a story about how he allegedly videotaped women in the bathrooms at his ministry headquarters, and—“Oh my gosh. It happened here too?”

Cindy’s shoulders droop. The crease between her brows deepens. “I don’t know. It’s horrible and I’ve been putting out fires all day.”

Then the facts catch up with me.

Holy shit balls.

My skin crawls as my mind flashes over the things I’ve done in what I thought was the privacy of my own space. And to have Danny and Rachel’s dad watching everything.

Oh Lord.

Danny and me—the sex. Did Dave watch that too? My mouth sours and the back of my throat burns with the thought.

I turn and rush down the hall toward the exit. Before I go through it, I stop. Crap. They’re probably out there, waiting for me. Or maybe for Danny.

I should warn him.

I head to the bathroom as I tap the screen to make the call.

It rings once. “Mo?”

“Yeah.” I hit the lock on the door handle.

“Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know. Look, I just called to tell you—”

“Oh no; they’ve found you, too.”

“At the shelter. Cindy chased them back outside.”

“I’ll come get you. Stay put. Where are you?”

The warmth in my heart wars with the cold in my gut. No. I can’t let him near me. I have too much to work through. “No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

“Are you sure? Can we meet somewhere later? Talk?”

I chew my thumbnail. Yes dangles from the tip of my tongue.

“Please, Mo, I need to see you.”

“That’s not a good idea. I have a lot to think about.”

“Are you okay? How do you feel? You haven’t done anything, have you?”

“Anything?”

“You know, about the baby—you haven’t decided yet, have you?”

I close my eyes and push my fingers through my hair. “No, not yet.”

A big sigh comes through the receiver. “Good. Please, before you do anything, can we talk?”

I cover my mouth and pull the phone away. Danny’s face smiles up at me—the selfie he took a week or so ago and set as his image in my contacts list.

Those dimples.

My ribs clamp tight around my lungs. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

I wash my hands and head down the hall to the childcare room. There are seven babies and toddlers all born to women who made the wrong choices. Choice of men. Choice of education. Choice of location. Some are at fault, some not. Either way, these babies are here, being raised in a shelter.