Page 10

Heather

I wake up at four in the morning with my stomach churning and my heart pounding.

I brush my teeth and gag at the smell of mint.

I stare at myself in the mirror, realizing that I look pale, shaky, and sweaty, the same as the last few days.

My trembling hands grip the sink like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

I’ve been in denial since I first realized I could be pregnant, and I haven’t done a test. But yesterday Ghost was asking me if I was okay, and if he’s picking up on it then I must look like a mess.

I need to know one way or another.

I throw on leggings and a hoodie, pull my hair into a messy knot, and slide out of the garage while it’s still dark. The moon is still in the sky. I know what I have to do today—right now, in fact—so I get into my car and go.

The gas station at the edge of town is open.

The woman behind the counter barely looks up when I walk in, which is exactly what I want.

More than anything, I want autonomy. I grab the cheapest pregnancy test kit on the shelf and pay in cash.

I avoid eye contact and toss the receipt in the trash on the way out.

I drive back with the windows down, hoping the air will clear my head. It doesn’t.

Back in the garage, I head straight to the bathroom on shaky legs. The light above the mirror buzzes faintly. My hands tremble as I rip open the box, and I hate how familiar the process is. I take the test, set it on the edge of the sink, and step back.

Two minutes. That’s all it takes. I use the time to pace. When two minutes have passed, I stand in front of the test strip and stare. It takes a second for the second line to show up. It’s faint, but it’s there. That second strip makes it a positive test.

I walk out and sit on the edge of my cot. I feel like crying, but I don’t dare because if I get started, I might never stop. Instead, I just go completely still. I think that if I don’t move, I won’t completely fall apart.

I’m pregnant. Not maybe. Not probably. Absolutely.

Leaving the test kit in the bathroom is a good move.

Having it in my hand feels like too much responsibility.

I put my head in my hands as the reality of my situation sinks in.

My life sucked pretty hard before. Now, it’s ten times worse.

I’m homeless, working a temporary job that provides me with a tenuous place to live, on the run from an abusive ex-boyfriend, and pregnant with a child I do not want.

What if this child turns out to be a narcissist like his or her father?

I haven’t been with anyone else. Not since I slammed my trunk closed, left the spare key on the counter, and drove until I couldn’t feel his eyes on me anymore.

This baby is his, and no matter what, he can never know.

I sit on the edge of my cot with my hands in my lap and my thoughts screaming. The silence in the garage wraps around me like a wet blanket, oppressive. My chest feels tight. I no longer feel okay in my own skin. My hand goes to my stomach. I can’t feel it, but this baby is inside me.

I grab my phone from the folding table and open my texts with trembling fingers. There’s nothing new from anyone I know. But near the top is a number I don’t recognize.

No name. Just a single message:

You shouldn’t have left me. Come back before it’s too late.

I drop the phone like it suddenly turns into a scorpion. He wants me back again, and that is never going to happen. I snatch the phone up again and delete the message, then power it off completely and throw it under my cot. It lands with a soft thud next to my hiking boots.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and try not to cry. I don’t want to. I don’t have time to. But I eventually lose the battle, and hot tears spill down my cheeks. I breathe deep. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. I try to ground myself in the room.

I focus on the work gloves on the table. The blueprint folder half open. Ghost’s toolbelt hanging on the hook by the door.

Ghost.

I shut my eyes. If he finds out, I’ll be unemployed and homeless.

Then again, he’s smart, observant, and protective in a quiet, bone-deep kind of way. He might try to fix it. Shield me. Maybe even go after my ex if he thought there was a threat. That’s the kind of man he is.

And that’s what terrifies me most. Because if Ghost goes after him, my ex will come for him. And then I won’t just be pregnant. I’ll be responsible.

***

By the time Ghost shows up, I’ve shoved the fear down so deep I almost believe it’s gone.

I’ve washed my face, pulled my hair back into a tighter ponytail, spread out the blueprints across the table like I’ve been working for hours instead of trying not to throw up or cry or both.

I’m calm. I’m composed. I’m a damn good actress when I need to be.

He walks in with his usual quiet energy, like a storm rolling in, slow and steady, always watching. He’s in his cut and a black thermal today, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease on his forearm and a bottle of water in his hand.

“Morning,” he says, eyeing the plans. “You beat me to it.”

“Didn’t sleep much,” I say, keeping my voice light.

He pauses. That’s it. Just a half-second hesitation before he nods and walks over, scanning the table. But I feel it. The way his eyes sweep over me before he even looks at the sketches.

He knows something’s off. I keep talking.

“I was thinking we could start framing out the kitchenette today. If we use the reclaimed planks from the old barn pile, we can save a couple hundred on materials. I’ll treat and seal them myself.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me like I’m one of the measurements he hasn’t figured out yet.

Finally, he says, “Sounds good.”

But his voice is off. Slower. Softer.

I push forward, pointing at the floor plan. “I marked the outlet spacing over here. I figured we can bring the wiring across this beam.”

“Did you eat yet?”

The question cuts through my momentum. I look up, and he’s staring at me, arms crossed, brow low.

“Not hungry,” I say, turning back to the plans.

“You’ve said that for several days in a row.”

I shrug. “Guess I’m still not.”

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t argue. Just walks over to the mini fridge in the corner, pulls out two waters, and hands one to me.

I take it. Mostly because not taking it would say more.

The silence stretches as we start marking wall studs for the partition.

He moves beside me, holding the level steady while I pencil in lines.

We work well together, always have. But today, the rhythm’s off.

I fumble the tape measure. Drop my pencil.

My hands shake when I try to lift the saw blade into position.

He notices everything. But he doesn’t say anything. And that’s worse than anything he could say. It’s late by the time we call it.

The sky’s gone dusky gold, and my whole body aches from fighting through the day. I’ve made it twelve hours without breaking down. That should feel like something. But it doesn’t.

Ghost wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it onto the bench. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, leaning against the worktable, watching me gather up tools like I haven’t been stumbling through this entire day like a sleepwalker.

I keep my eyes on the wrench I’m wrapping in a rag. Don’t look up. Don’t crack.

“Are you okay?” His voice is soft. Low enough that it could almost be casual.

But it isn’t. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. I can feel it in the air between us growing thick with what I’m not saying.

“You’ve been off for the past few days,” he says, his voice quieter now. “You’re pale. Shaky. Not eating. And before you say it, no, it’s not just stress. You work under pressure better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I freeze. My mouth opens. Then closes.

There’s a long, breathless pause where I almost say it.

I picture the look he’d give me. I picture him pulling back. Telling me I shouldn’t be doing physical work. Telling me I shouldn’t stay here. Telling me I’m too much liability. Too much of a risk.

And then I’d be homeless, lose everything I’ve started to build.

I swallow hard. “It’s… personal stuff. But I’m dealing with it.”

His jaw ticks, but he nods. Slowly. “You sure?”

I force a smile. “Positive.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell. But he lets it go. He gives me a long, steady look, then turns and starts putting away the lumber by the back wall, saying nothing else. And maybe that should be a relief, but it’s not.

It’s guilt. Heavy and hot in the center of my chest. He’s trying to help. And I’m lying to him. But I can’t risk what the truth might cost me.

***

The cot creaks under me as I shift for the third time in ten minutes. The garage is still dim, lit only by the faint glow of the portable space heater in the middle of the floor.

Ghost is back in the house now. I heard the door click shut fifteen minutes ago. Not wanting to be alone, I almost followed him. Almost knocked just to say something, anything. But what would I say?

Hey, so, I’m pregnant with my abusive ex’s baby and he’s messaging me threats to get me to come back to him. Hope that’s not a dealbreaker?

That’s not anything a boss wants to hear from his employee.

I exhale, long and quiet, pressing my hand lightly to my stomach. A part of me wants to tell him even though he might throw me out.

I keep thinking that he might let me stay. Maybe he’d even step up and try to protect me. And that’s what scares me the most. He’d be pitting himself against a narcissist with money and connections.

But I’d also be worried for myself, because once someone starts protecting you, they start making choices for you. And I’ve only just started remembering what it feels like to have true freedom again.

I close my eyes and picture him standing in the doorway this morning, arms crossed, eyes soft and yearning to know what’s going on with me.

He already knows something’s wrong. And maybe, deep down, I want him to figure it out.

I want someone to take the decision out of my hands.

But what if I chance it and he throws me out?

I could lose everything on a wild gamble hoping to get help.