Page 13

Ghost

I skip the coffee this morning. Instead, I drop a bag of peppermint and ginger tea into a travel mug, add a splash of honey, and pour the water slowly.

It’s not what I want. Hell, it’s not even what I need.

But it’s what she might be able to keep down, and right now that matters more than my caffeine fix.

I put bread in the toaster. When it pops up, I wrap it in a napkin with no butter or jelly. I’ll give it to her dry and bland. It’s the kind of thing someone can eat when their stomach’s about to revolt.

I’m carrying the tray across the yard when I hear her retching.

I pick up the pace, pushing the side door open without knocking.

And there she is, crouched over the utility sink, hair falling forward, hands braced on the edge.

She’s shaking and heaving. Not crying, just locked in that brutal rhythm of nausea that won’t give her a second to breathe.

I set the tray down and step closer. “Hey, I got you,” I say, voice low as I cross the room and stand by her side. I don’t ask permission. I just kneel beside her, one hand gently pulling her hair back from her face, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.

She flinches at first, then looks up at me with the most emotional expression I’ve ever seen on a woman’s face. There is misery, fatigue, and gratitude on her face. She eventually leans into my touch without a word. I’m happy that she accepts support from me in her time of need.

The retching keeps coming in waves, then turns into dry heaves. I feel such empathy for this woman. She’s strong to go through all this without a word of complaint. I stay right there through all of it, quiet, solid, and unflinching.

When it passes, I grab a clean cloth from the drawer, wet it under the warm tap, and hand it to her.

She presses it to her mouth, then her forehead, then just holds it in her lap while her whole body shudders once. “Sorry,” she croaks.

“Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.” I say it softly but firm, my hand still warm on her back.

“Thanks for helping me out. That couldn’t have been pleasant for you. I apologize for getting you involved in all this.”

“You don’t apologize for something you can’t control. You survive it. That’s what you’re doing. You’re surviving.”

She nods, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. I can tell from looking at her that she’s already exhausted and she just woke up.

“You’d be more comfortable in the house,” I say. Last night I’d asked her to move in. Saying that it felt all kinds of wrong having a pregnant woman living in my garage. But she said she was fine.

I’m not giving up though. Someone made her feel like she has to take the weight of the world on her shoulders and do everything alone. I swear to God, if the asshole who did this to her was standing in front of me right now, I’d put him through the goddamn wall.

I wait while she disappears into the bathroom with her wet cloth while I clean up the mess she didn’t ask me to deal with.

It doesn’t take long to clean up, just a splash of water here, a wipe down there. I’ve seen worse, and honestly, I’d mop the whole damn floor with my shirt if it meant she didn’t have to do it herself.

By the time she steps out, her face is washed, her hoodie’s changed, and her hair is pulled back tight and neat. She’s trying to reclaim her personal power after being vulnerable in front of me. I can see the effort in her shoulders, the set of her jaw.

I don’t say anything. Just hand her the water bottle I left on the worktable and a granola bar she probably won’t eat. She takes them anyway.

We step outside without a word and sit on the log pile behind the garage. The morning air is cool, the trees filtering soft light through early haze. She leans her elbows on her knees, head down, water bottle rolling slowly between her palms.

“You didn’t have to stay while I was throwing up,” she says quietly.

“I know. I stayed because I wanted to,” I tell her.

Her voice takes on an emotional edge. “I’m not your responsibility just because I work for you.”

Swallowing thickly, I croak out, “I am well aware of that fact. It’s hard for me not to respond when a woman is in distress.”

She glances sideways, just enough to catch my expression. “You weren’t weirded out?”

“Not even close. I was fuckin’ worried about you.”

She doesn’t respond right away but I hear her exhaling softly. I glance over at her again, noting that she still looks frail, but I see her shoulders relax a little.

After a minute or so she murmurs, “You are kind of hard to read. I don’t know why you do the things you do sometimes. You know what I mean?”

I run my palms down the front of my jeans, feeling uncomfortable. “It’s better to be hard to read than to be hard to trust.”

A tiny smile jumps onto her face. Barely there, but genuine, letting me know she appreciates my point.

“I mean it,” I add. “You don’t have to be tough all the time. Not with me.”

She nods slowly, then takes a sip of water. “I know. I’m not used to relying on other people. And I didn’t think this was how any of this would go.”

“You mean the part where I held your hair back when you were sick?”

“Exactly that part. Most guys would be running from a situation like that.”

“Well, I’m not fuckin’ most guys,” I tell her, my voice sounding rougher than I intend it to.

We sit in silence a little longer, just breathing in the pine-sweet air and not pretending to be anything other than two people dealing with something bigger than either of us planned for.

“Ready to head to the clinic?” I ask eventually.

She nods, giving me a wan smile. “Yeah, might as well get going.”

And when I stand, I offer my hand, not because she needs it, but because I want her to know she’s got a friend in me. She hesitates for a brief second before sliding her hand into mine. It feels like winning the fucking lottery.

***

The ride into town is quiet at first, with Heather leaning her head against the closed window.

Her eyes are closed but she’s not sleeping.

I can tell by her breathing and the way her hands unintentionally shift to cradle her flat stomach.

When pregnant women do that, I’ve always interpreted it as a protective pose.

But I’m still not sure if she even wants this baby she’s carrying.

I keep my eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift.

The thing that keeps running through my mind is where the hell is this baby’s daddy?

Why isn’t he here to take care of and protect his unborn child?

The obvious reason is because Heather considers him unfit in some way.

Maybe he’s one of those lazy fuckers with an aversion to working and she can’t see herself taking care of him and a new baby.

Or it could be that he’s abusive and she doesn’t want him around the baby.

Or heaven forbid, she was raped at some point and ended up pregnant.

There are a lot of reasons why the dad might be missing, but they all provoke and make my protective instincts come surging to the surface. I like Heather and don’t want to see anything bad happen to her or her baby.

Suddenly, I’m hyper aware of our surroundings, like I need to watch the road but also every damn thing around us.

Every car we pass might veer off and crash into us.

Every alley might contain a danger. Every parked SUV sitting too long at the intersection might mean trouble that I can’t yet grasp.

I was never one to trust easily. But now, my suspiciousness is not just habit, it’s some kind of protective instinct rising to the forefront of my consciousness.

“You ever been to a doctor to get checked out for a pregnancy?” I ask, breaking the quiet before I crawl right out of my skin with worry.

She rolls her head over, opens her eyes, and shakes her head. “No, definitely not.”

“Well, you’re in good hands. Patch is solid. Everyone in town likes him. He’s not even taking new patients right now, but he’ll make an exception for you.”

“I remember he was nice to us at the clubhouse,” she says weakly.

“Unofficially,” I say to keep the conversation ball rolling. “He’s patched me up before.”

Her eyes fly open. “I remember you saying he patches up the club brothers when they get shot. I hope your gunshot wound healed without a problem.”

I shoot her an embarrassed grin. “Mine wasn’t a gunshot wound. I gave myself a third-degree burn on the inside of my arm while cooking on the grill.”

Heather gives a small laugh, “Really? How’d that happen?”

“Bear closed the lid of the grill while I was still flipping burgers. It was a huge fuckin’ grill and took him a minute to get the lid back up. It clamped my arm down against the grilling plate.”

Suddenly, she isn’t smiling anymore. “That actually sounds horrific. It must have been really painful.”

“It was. But it taught me an important life lesson.”

She takes a guess, “Use a long spatula?”

“No. Don’t let absent-minded fuckers help with the grilling.”

She presses her lips together, as if trying not to laugh.

I jerk my chin to the building in front of us. “We’re here.”

She jerks to a sitting position. “You sure he’ll see me with no appointment?”

“Yes,” I tell her firmly. I ease off the road, pull into a parking space, and turn off the engine.

Turning to her, I try to find the right words to talk about something delicate.

“Patch is a solid brother. You can trust him to keep whatever you say between you and him. If you’re running from a domestic violence situation, tell him you don’t want any insurance records or files to track you by. ”

Heather nods slowly, letting my words sink in. “Alright, I’ll try to trust him.”

As we get out of the truck, she goes quiet again, wrapping her arms around her waist. When we get to the front door, I ask, “You ready or do you need a minute?”