“Don’t leave.” He scans my face, his gaze drifting everywhere, and though it’s an order, I know he wants my acknowledgment. I nod again. “Good,” he says simply, then smashes his lips onto mine and gives me a forceful kiss.
When he releases me, I step back and blink myself back to life, just catching his back disappearing out of the room.
The door closes loudly.
Then I cry like a baby, trying to suppress the sound so I don’t wake Nan. It’s silly; if she was to wake up, then she would have by now after that brief shouting match and the slamming of a few doors. My pathetic choked sobs won’t rouse her.
“Everything okay, Miss Taylor?”
I look up, seeing Ted in the doorway of the lounge. “Fine.” I rub at my eyes. “Tired, that’s all.”
“Understandable,” he says softly, making me smile a little.
“You knew she was back, too, didn’t you?”
He nods, dropping his eyes. “Not my news to share, sweetheart.”
“So you did know her.”
“Everyone knew Gracie Taylor.” He smiles, keeping his eyes on the floor, like he’s scared I might press for more should he give me eye contact. I’m not going to. I don’t want to know.
“You’d better take up position.” I indicate over my shoulder when he looks up at me, his rugged face a little surprised. “I’m sorry for going AWOL again.”
He chuckles. “You’re safe. That’s the main thing.” He strides across the room and finds his position at the window, and I observe for a while, remembering his skillful driving.
It pushes me to press him. “Have you always worked for William?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“What did you do before?”
“Military.”
“You were a soldier?”
He doesn’t answer, just nods, telling me he’s done talking with me, so I leave Ted and drag my weary bones up the stairs to the bathroom, hoping a hot shower will soothe my aching mind and heart while it’s soothing my aching muscles. The different elements of pressure on each of us are becoming too much, both of us trying to shoulder everything. We’re going to give way under the strain soon.
After flipping the shower on, I stand before the sink, staring at my washed-out face, seeing dark circles under my hollow eyes. Only a century’s sleep and waking to find every burden gone will remedy it. I sigh and open the mirrored cupboard, cursing when a load of cosmetics tumble from the shelves and clatter into the sink. “Shit,” I grumble, scooping up pots and tubes one by one and placing them back. I’m nearly done, only the Tampax left to…
Tampax.
I stare at the box, my tongue thickening in my mouth. Tampax. I’m late. I’m never late. Not ever. I don’t like the feel of nervousness beating in my chest or the pulsing of blood in my ears. I try to calculate when my last period was. Three weeks ago? Four weeks ago? I hadn’t gotten it in New York. Shit.
I dash for my bedroom, finding the empty box of the morning after pill, and pull the pamphlet out, fiddling with clumsy fingers to unfold the paper until it’s laid flat on my bed. Chinese. German. Spanish. Italian. “Where’s the fucking English?” I yell, turning it over and slapping it on the bed. I spend the next twenty minutes reading piles and piles of small print. Nothing sinks in, though. Nothing except the success rate. There’s no guarantee. Some women become pregnant—a small amount, but some, nevertheless. All of the blood drains from my head. I come over all light-headed and the room begins to whirl. Fast. I collapse to my back and stare up at the ceiling, feeling hot, cold, sweaty, choked. “Oh fuck…”
I don’t know what to do. I’m blank. Totally stumped. My phone! I spring to life and run downstairs to the kitchen. My shaky hands won’t cooperate, my stupid fingers not hitting the buttons I’m telling them to. “Damn it!” I stamp my foot, then stand motionless, pulling in some reasonable amount of air into my suppressed lungs. I let it all stream out calmly and start again, successfully pulling up my calendar. I go over the days time and time again, counting more than I’d hoped, thinking maybe amid the madness of my life just lately, I may have made a colossal error. I haven’t. Each time I count, I come to the same calculation. I’m a week late. “Fuck.”
I flop against the worktop, spinning my iPhone in my grasp. I need a chemist. I need to know for sure. This meltdown might be completely unnecessary. Glancing across the kitchen, I note it’s past eight. But a twenty-four-hour pharmacy will be open. My legs are in action before my brain, and I’m off up the hallway, but when my brain kicks in, I’m soon halted in my task of pulling my denim jacket down from the coat stand.