Page 80 of Forever, Maybe

Chapter sixty-three

Nell had convinced her mother to let her take charge of decorating her bedroom. Now, she lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, where clusters of luminescent stars glowed softly in the dark.

They held her attention for minutes at a time, just as they always had.

Orion… you see it? Her dad’s voice, drifting in from happier, more innocent days. And there’s Pegasus, the winged stallion.

She exhaled. Help me out here, stars. Give me an answer. A solution. Something that makes all of this... go away.

Her hand drifted to her stomach.

Cate had started commenting on her clothes. Gosh, why are you wearing that hideous, shapeless jumper again? Don’t you want to put on that lovely one Auntie June got you for your birthday? It’s a much nicer colour, for a start.

That nice, too-tight one? No, thank you.

She wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer. A few more weeks, maybe. After that, there would be no more oversized jumpers, no more avoiding mirrors. Just the undeniable truth, staring back at her.

And then she would have to explain.

Her mother had always told her she could come to her, no matter what.

If you’re ever in trouble, if something’s wrong, tell me.

We’ll work it out together, she said, hand on Nell’s forearm .

Cate had read all the articles about the delicate emotional state of teenage girls.

Advice columns told parents to be open, understanding and non-judgmental, so their daughters would confide in them.

But Cate had probably imagined different kinds of confessions.

Mum, me and my friends tried some vodka at that party last weekend.

Mum, there’s this group of girls at school who pick on me. I cry myself to sleep most nights.

Mum, I feel fat and disgusting, and I hate myself.

Not— Mum, I haven’t had a period in six months. And yes, I did the thing that leads to babies.

How would her mother and father react?

How would they look at her?

And then there was Darren Hardy. Seventeen. High school hero. Champion cross-country runner. Local football star. The boy being scouted by Norwich FC.

How much would his reputation matter in all of this?

Nell closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. The stars above her remained silent.

Darren, the younger son of the Stephenson’s next-door neighbours, had grown up alongside Nell.

Thrown together so frequently at parties, it was perhaps inevitable that they sneaked away to the neighbourhood’s hidden places—behind the sheds at the bottom of gardens, their bedrooms whenever their houses were empty—where a confident, but still respectful, Darren kissed first Nell’s cheek, then her mouth and edged his hands up her back and underneath her school shirt, those hands moving ever closer to her breasts and her bottom with each passing.

Amazed by the power at her fingertips that made him pant, groan and clutch her hard enough that she could feel his ‘thing’ digging into her, Nell nodded dazedly one evening when they were upstairs in her room and he whispered, “Shall we… do it?”, with the luminescent stars twinkling above them, and her parents at the Hardys’ garden party.

Darren was also a virgin. He kept repeating that, adding that she couldn’t tell a soul that they’d had sex. “Anyone finds out and I’ll get done for statutory rape, lovey. ‘Cause you’re only fourteen.”

“I won’t say a word, I promise,” Nell whispered, watching as Darren stripped off his jeans and shirt. Up until now, she’d only seen glimpses of him naked—pieces of a puzzle. Now, it was like watching the final image take shape, the best jigsaw in the world clicking into place.

“What about condoms?” she asked.

Darren whipped one from his jeans pocket, triumphant. But putting it on was another matter—the latex refused to roll down properly.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he murmured, frustration flickering across his face. Then, more hopeful, “Or… what if I just pull out before I come?”

A war raged inside Nell—desire tangled with fear, shame, and an urgent, suffocating need not to disappoint. She swallowed.

“Okay. If you promise.”

Darren nodded fervently. “Yeah, swear to God.”

It hurt more than she expected. A sharp, searing pain that made her grit her teeth.

Darren didn’t last long—his breath hot against her neck, a muffled groan as he yanked himself free at the last moment.

Warmth splattered her bare legs, the duvet beneath them.

Nell lay still, her mind already moving ahead, calculating: She’d need to strip the bed, shove everything in the machine before her mum noticed.

She always left the washing to her. Not this time.

“Was that okay? Did you like it?” Darren asked afterward, already having assured her that he’d enjoyed it a great deal.

Nell said “yes” automatically.

There was a second time. And a third—each secret coupling growing easier, more thrilling, the risk sharpening the pleasure.

Two weeks later, Darren Hardy was dead.

A newly qualified driver, he took a corner too fast. His father’s black Audi TT lost traction, spun off the road, and slammed into an ancient beech tree. The impact ignited the fuel tank. The car exploded.

The town reeled. His parents moved through their grief as if carrying something vast and sodden, dragging it behind them wherever they went.

At school, his death was a tragedy—a golden boy gone too soon. Teachers spoke in hushed voices. Students left flowers at the gates. His girlfriend wept along with the rest of them—no more, no less. She had no choice.

No one had known about them.

Cate and Bobby, oblivious, chalked up their daughter’s overwhelming sadness to the loss of a childhood friend.

Such a shame, they murmured. Those two used to love playing together when they were little.

They never questioned why, months later, she still burst into tears for no reason at all.

Except now, Nell had plenty to cry about.

According to the book she’d skimmed in the library—standing between the shelves, heart pounding, making sure no one saw—the baby would arrive on or around the third of September.

She couldn’t picture her future. Not properly. It was too hazy, too slippery—something she reached for but could never quite hold.

But one thing was certain.

It did not include a child.

It was time to tell her parents.

Downstairs, her mum moved around the kitchen, the faint clatter of plates and running water drifting up through the floorboards. The front door slammed. Her dad’s voice rang out, warm and familiar, delighted—as always—to be home.

In a few minutes, she would walk down those stairs, and everything would change.

There would be yelling. Tears. Disappointment.

For a few seconds more, she lay still, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars. Holding onto these last moments of calm before her world cracked open.

Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Darren.