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Chapter 34
Will
It’s not what I expected. Things with Jovie Ross seldom are.
All I want to do is scream after her, to stop her from walking away from me again, but the farther she gets, the tighter my throat clenches.
I got what I wanted, right? She answered my question, but…
I look up and she’s gone.
“Hey, Will. Where’s Jovie going?”
I’m not sure who asks it. I don’t even bother trying to answer them. Instead, I walk down the hallway, following the trailing echoes of her shoes.
Not here. She begged me and I didn’t listen.
I reach the parking lot and there she is.
Flashes of a different age take over my mind. Jovie in her torn, pink dress and puffy cheeks, sitting on my old, crappy moped with a sweet smile and seductive eyes.
Does this POS seat two?
But she’s older now. Her dress wasn’t swiped off a bargain clothes rack. Her eyes aren’t obscured by a thick layer of pure black eyeliner. Her cheeks are still a little puffy but the tears streaming down her face explain that much.
She’s leaning against the passenger door of her car, waiting for me. I have the keys, I guess.
She sees me approaching and wipes her eyes and nose. Her head stays down as she turns to grip the door handle, signaling a need for silence and I don’t question it.
Not here.
The drive home is torture. I almost think to take the long way just to stall the inevitable pain a few minutes longer. She stares out the window beside her, carefully wiping her face as another tear sneaks out every few minutes.
God, what have I done?
First Street is quiet; deserted by those still at the dance. The creaking car door echoes down the street the moment I park as Jovie throws the thing open and steps outside. She’s already fished her keys out and unlocked the door by the time I catch up with her.
As she enters the hallway, she reaches behind her and grips the zipper along the back of her dress.
I hang the car keys on the hook by the door out of habit. I stand in the living room, listening closely to the shuffling of her feet in the bedroom. She rolls open a dresser drawer. Tosses her shoes into the closet. She sniffs quietly.
I wander slowly, following the isolated sounds to the bedroom and lean against the door frame to look inside.
Jovie sits on the edge of the bed with her eyes on the floor, wearing her jeans with the torn knees and an old, red sweater. Sneakers on her feet. Hair in a simple ponytail. Back to normal. No less breathtaking, though.
Her voice cracks. “I was pregnant.”
I stare at the top of her head. “When?” I ask.
“When you broke up with me,” she says to the floor, “I was pregnant.”
I shift as the pain starts in my gut. As if it were possible for me to feel any worse about that moment in time. I didn’t just call Jovie Ross a horrible, selfish child. I said it to the mother of my baby.
“For how long?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not long. A month, maybe. I found out just before Valentine’s.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
