Page 69 of Palm South University: Season 2

I wince. “I’m having fun.”

“Clearly,” he scoffs. Sliding a twenty toward the bartender, he takes the drinks from her hands and shakes his head when she asks if he wants change. “Come on. Take this drink and come dance with us. It’s Spring Break, Ex.”

“Isn’t that Shawna’s drink?”

“She still has one,” he says, holding one of the mixed drinks toward me. It’s clear, something with Sprite, I imagine. “Here.”

I bite my lip, wondering if maybe he’s right. I can have a few drinks and be okay, right? But when my eyes flick to his and a flash of smaller, younger eyes assaults me, I squeeze my own tight.

Would our baby have had his eyes?

His nose?

His skin?

And I realize that maybe that’s why I feel something when I see him with Shawna – because he is supposed to be a father.Mychild’s father.

The child I killed.

I shake my head, hands clasping tighter. “Thanks, Bear, but I’m okay.”

For a moment he watches me, jaw set. He turns just a fraction like he’s going to let it go, but then he whips back around. “This is fucking ridiculous, Erin. We hooked up, okay? We had sex. It’s not the end of the world and I’m not going to tell anyone. And, whether you stay sober as a judge or get shitfaced tonight, I’m never going to sleep with you again, okay? So stop looking at me like you have to worry about ending up in my bed tonight.” His words slam into me like a Mack truck and my mouth pops open as he scowls, rolling his eyes. “Get over yourself.”

My nose burns, but I stand before the sensation can reach my eyes. Pulling my purse over my shoulder, I straighten, chest to his. “Fuck you, Bear.”

With that, I turn on my heel and push through the crowd of drunk college students to the street. I don’t slow down, I don’t apologize, and I don’t look back at him or anyone else who might have seen the exchange.

I’m done.

LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER,I’m tossing my bag into the back of a Cadillac Escalade sent by my father. I told him I was terribly sick and I needed to get back to campus and he called out a driver from the airport without another question. After shooting a text to Skyler with the same bogus excuse, I let the driver help me into the backseat and sigh as he shuts the door behind me.

Sinking into the cool leather seats, I cross my arms tight over my chest, not even bothering to brush away the few strands of hair falling into my eyes. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a boa constrictor and no matter how I focus on my breathing, I can’t steady it out. Clinton’s words slap me over and over again, the anger behind them washing over me in treacherous waves.

I should have told him.

He doesn’t understand because I never did. I never will.

Clinton thinks I’m upset that we hooked up, that I’m ashamed or scared or embarrassed by it to the point that I refuse to drink again. He doesn’t know that I’m terrified of letting another drop of alcohol hit my system because it could mean losing a part of myself again. It could mean having an amazing night with a great guy without being smart enough to use protection. It could mean one night of fun in exchange for one day of anguish, my back sticky on a paper-covered bed, my feet propped up on cold, unforgiving stirrups.

My heart races, the emotion I’ve been fighting so hard to keep down threatening to break the surface. Hands fumbling, I rip my phone from my Michael Kors purse and dial his number before I can stop myself. My knee bounces as the phone rings over and over, sending me closer to voicemail.

But then, he answers.

“Hello?”

I stop breathing, stop shaking, stop everything. Eyes wide, I clutch the phone tighter at the sound of his voice.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Now that I have him on the phone, I don’t even know what to say. All I know is that Kip Jackson was the only boy to ever make me feel truly loved. Even though it was years ago, he’s the only person I want to call when life gets too hard to handle. But I haven’t talked to him since that summer, the one when we fell in love and then I chased him away just as quickly.

There’s a shift on the other end and then the line goes dead with a soft, quiet click. I let the cool device drop into my lap, bringing one trembling hand to my lips. And then, I stop fighting. Taking one last breath, I let the pressure rumbling through my chest and up into my throat break through. Loud, ugly, and painful, as so often hidden hurt is, I allow it to consume me.

I finally let myself cry.