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“When I heard what happened, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
A laugh escapes me. Here’s a PSA to all the guys out there: When a girl laughs at something that clearly isn’t funny, something’s wrong. There’s no turning back after that. You should probably run.
I roll my chair back and stalk around my desk to stand in front of him. “Why don’t you go ask Brianna how she’s doing?”
He winces. “That’s not fair.”
“Not fair? You of all people don’t get to tell me what’s fair.”
Joe reaches for me, but I back away as if his hand is a disgusting slug. “Come on, Carla. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me? I want to work things out.”
My eyeballs almost pop out of my head. “So, now that our baby is dead, you want to work things out?”
Joe’s mouth falls open. I’m not one for outbursts, in private or public. But I’m past caring. I lost more than the baby when I miscarried. Something inside me snapped.
Mr. Andrews, my boss, appears in the doorway. “Miss Evans, is everything okay?”
For the past two months, many people had asked me that very question. I’d always answered with the same forced smile and mechanical response.
Today, I swallow and say, “No. Everything is not okay.”
He turns to Joe and sighs. “Why are you here, Mr. McKinney? What do you want?”
Joe’s beautiful, emerald eyes lock with mine. “I want to work things out. I want to be together again.”
My heart clenches and I scold it. Back in your cell, inmate.
“And what do you want, Miss Evans?”
What do I want?
I feel disoriented. I’m blinking like I’ve been woken up by a bucket of ice water. Flashes of my old life play on a reel in my mind.
I want what I once had.
I want what I lost.
But I can’t go back to the way things were before I’d gotten pregnant. Nothing would be the same ever again. I had a plan then. Now, I’d have to make a new plan—a new life. One without Joe. One tinged with sadness over a baby who never got to be.
What do I want?
For the first time in my life, I don’t know.
Maybe it’s Joe’s unexpected presence. Maybe it’s the lack of food. Maybe it’s the loss of control that sends me spiraling. Regardless of what caused it, I fall down a rabbit hole.
The words form on my tongue before the actual thought does. “I quit.”
A deep crease forms between Mr. Andrews’s eyebrows. “What?”
I lift my chin and square my shoulders. “I quit.” And with that, I spin on my heels and swipe my purse off my desk. I pass the dumbfounded men, leave the office, and walk right out of the building. I pull out of the parking lot and into my parents’ driveway ten minutes later.
Dodging the minefield of sports equipment and action figures, I stomp across the lawn and let myself in the house. When I reach my bedroom, I dump my toiletries and phone charger into the already-packed suitcase at the foot of my bed and zipper it shut. My yoga mat gets rolled up and tucked under my arm. I’m supposed to leave for New York tomorrow, but it looks like I’m getting a head start.
I scribble a quick note to my parents and leave it on the kitchen counter. Decided to leave a day early. I’ll call you along the way. Love you.
Then I’m hoisting my suitcase into the back seat of my 1970 glossy black Camaro and backing out of the driveway.
I don’t stop to think. I don’t stop to call my best friend, Charlotte, who’s the reason I’m driving all the way from Florida to New York in the first place. I don’t even turn on the radio. I don’t do anything except drive.
