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Jenny’s flip-flopped feet kick up sand as she paces on the riverbank. Her white sundress flares as she turns a final time to me, finger pointing. “You’re goin’ and that’s all there is to it. Just like we planned. Nothin’s changed.”
My voice rails with resentment she doesn’t deserve. “What are you talkin’ about—everything’s changed! You can’t come visit me once a month with a baby! We can’t bring a baby to a dorm room.”
Resigned, she whispers, “I know.”
I take my own step back. “You expect me to leave you here? That was gonna be hard enough before, but now . . . I’m not gonna fucking walk away when you’re pregnant. What kinda man do you think I am?”
She grasps my hands and gives me a speech that rivals “win one for the Gipper.” “You’re the kind of man who’s gonna go to Columbia University and graduate with honors. A man who’s gonna be able to name his salary when he does. You’re not walkin’ away, you’re doin’ what’s best for us. For our family, our future.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
“Oh yes you are.”
“And what about your future?”
“I’ll stay with my parents—they’ll help me with the baby. They’re practically raising the twins anyway.”
Jenny’s older sister, Ruby, is the proud mother of twins, with baby number three on the way. She attracts losers like cow shit attracts flies. The unemployed, the alcoholic, the lazy—she can’t get enough of them.
“Between them and your parents, I’ll still be able to go to nursin’ school.” Jenny wraps her slender arms around my neck.
And, God, she’s pretty.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I murmur.
But my girl’s mind is made up. “You’ll go and come home when you can. And when you can, it’ll get us through until the next time.”
I kiss her lips—they’re soft and full and taste like cherry. “I love you. I’ll never love anyone the way I love you.”
She smiles. “And I love you, Stanton Shaw—there’s only ever gonna be you.”
Young love is strong. First love is powerful. But what you don’t know when you’re young—what you can’t know—is how long life actually is. And the only dependable thing about it, besides death and taxes, is change.
Jenny and I had a whole lot of change headed our way.
She takes my hand and we walk to my truck. I open the door for her and she asks, “Who are we gonna tell first? Yours or mine?”
I blow out a breath. “Yours. Get the crazy side over with first.”
She’s not offended. “Let’s just hope Nana never finds the shells to that shotgun.”
• • •
Seven months later
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”
This can’t be normal. Dr. Higgens keeps saying it is, but there’s no way.
“Gaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I grew up on a farm. I’ve seen all types of births—cows, horses, sheep. None of them sounded like this.
“Uhhhhhhhhhh!”
This? This is like a horror movie. Like Saw . . . a massacre.
“Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
If this is what women go through to have a baby, why would they ever risk having sex at all?
“Owwwwwww!”
I’m not sure I want to risk having sex again. Jerking off looks a lot better now than it did yesterday.
Jenny screams so loud my ears ring. And I groan as her grip tightens on my already tender hand. The air is thick with sweat—and panic. But Dr. Higgens just sits there on a stool adjusting his glasses. Then he braces his hands on his knees and peers between Jenny’s spread, stirrupped legs—the way my mother squints into the oven on Thanksgiving, trying to decide if the turkey’s done.
Gasping, Jenny collapses back against the pillows and moans, “I’m dyin’, Stanton! Promise me you’ll take care of the baby when I’m gone. Don’t let it grow up to be an idiot like your brother, or a slut like my sister.”
Her blond bangs are dark with sweat. I push them back from her forehead. “Oh, I don’t know. Idiots are funny and sluts have their good points.”
“Don’t patronize me, dammit! I’m dyin’!”
Fear and exhaustion put an extra snap in my voice. “Listen up—there is no way in hell you’re leavin’ me to do this on my own. You’re not dying.”
Then I turn to Dr. Higgens. “Isn’t there somethin’ you can do? Drugs you can give her?”
And me?
I’m not usually much of a stoner, but at this moment I’d sell my soul for a hit of pot.
Higgens shakes his head. “Won’t do any good. Contractions are comin’ too fast—you got an impatient one here.”
Fast? Fast? If five hours is fast, I don’t want to know what slow looks like.
What the hell are we doing?
This isn’t how our lives were supposed to go. I’m the quarterback. I’m the fucking valedictorian—the smart one. Jenny’s the homecoming queen and head cheerleader.
Or at least she was—until the baby bump got too big for her uniform.
We’re supposed to go to prom next month. We should be thinking about graduation parties and bonfires, screwing in the backseat of my truck and having as many good times with our friends as we can before college. Instead we’re having a baby.
A real one—not the hard-boiled-egg kind they make you carry around for a week in school. I cracked mine, by the way.