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It’s clear he doesn’t trust me because I bailed on him the last time we were supposed to meet. I wanted to go. Then I got the call about Dru, and I took off.
“Patty’s? Yeah. That works. I need your number.” He drops my hand, and I feel the loss of connection. That same tether that held me to him months ago resurfaces with a short squeeze of his hand.
We exchange phone numbers and set a time. When I’m back in my van, the ability to hold it together completely leaves me. I shake uncontrollably as I watch him climb the cabin steps and pause at the door with his hands in his hair. He hunches over as if he’s trying to expel as much air as possible. The stress radiates off him like heat waves, and I run my hands over my stomach.
Tears slip down my cheeks, each one saturated with guilt and shame. I wish I could call my mother or sister and ask them what to do, but these threats keep me paralyzed. There’s more than just violence holding me here.
I can’t talk to them. I can’t go home. I can’t tell anyone about this baby, or they’ll come after me, and pictures will be on every newsstand by tomorrow at noon.
I’ve already done enough to drag my family name into the spotlight and put them in danger. I’ve already destroyed my reputation. I sunk my six-figure business with one single sentence, so who knows what the pictures and videos could do to Mom’s multi-million-dollar merger.
A soft nose nudges me, and Figgy weasels his way through the small space between my arm and body. He puts his paws on my chest and rubs his cheek against my neck. I scratch behind his ears, letting the softness of his grey fur soothe me. I have no idea how lonely I’d be without this cat. I trace the black stripes on his head, and the rumble of his purr settles my nerves.
I pick him up and give him a smattering of kisses before setting him on the passenger seat and starting the van.
I have no idea if Zeke will be supportive. Of what we’ll decide to do. Of what I want to do. This entire encounter was not what I expected, which throws me straight off balance with how to proceed.
My entire life, I’ve wanted people to stop coddling me, to trust me to make my own choices. To forge my own path in life.
Then I got that chance, and look where I am. A failure, a laughingstock, and knocked up by some rugged, small-town Canadian boy.
Obviously, I’m not suited to being in control of my own life.
On my way back to Raston, I stop at the grocery store and wander the aisles with a small basket hooked on my arm. The organic section is tiny, and I dig through the peppers, trying to find something I can use. Cooking in my van has been an interesting lesson in kitchen minimalism, especially since I eat strictly to manage my condition.
The air is chilled, and pop music plays overhead. A young woman—maybe my age, maybe a bit younger—is humming to the music and creating a pyramid of avocados. I smile at her as I approach, and her blue eyes are curious. Her hair, almost the same shade of cerulean, is in a smooth ponytail, and her shirt is branded with the little store’s logo.
“Can I help you find something?” she asks, eyeing me like she’s trying to figure out why I’m here.
“Not unless you can expand the organic section and beam me a homegrown tomato plant,” I joke, and the girl’s face splits into an infectious grin. She adjusts the glasses on her nose and rolls her eyes.
“I’ve been on Terry for years about that, but it doesn’t sell in a place like this,” she says. “Do you garden? I have a tomato plant at home. I’ll never be able to eat them all, even with my brother, who is a human compost bin.”
“I have a gardener at home. But home is very far away.” I’m enjoying this easy conversation with a girl my age with absolutely zero weirdness.
The girls from my private school and through my life are very different from this girl. She has no idea who I am, my connections, or anything to do with my vlog. As far as she could know, I’m a regular girl travelling through town. She’s not sizing me up, and she seems genuinely excited to meet a new person.
“You have agardener?” she asks with a raised eyebrow, and my gut sinks. Shit.
My cheeks heat up, and I study the food in my basket to avoid her. I don’t have a gardener. Mama does. And a chef and three housekeepers. Old Southern money and being the exec of a country music label makes those things commonplace.
You have no idea what’s it’s like to struggle. Stop pretending you’re some everyday chick.
Comments like this creep in now and again, but right here, standing in this grocery store, doing “regular chick” things, the stench of my wealth still clings to me.
“I wish I had a gardener.” The girl laughs, breaking the tension. “I’m Tabitha, by the way. Where are you from? You have the most adorable accent.”
There’s a pause as I weigh my options to answer. My dad’s place in Alabama is no shack in the woods, but it distances me from my mom and her fame.
“I’m from Alabama. I’m Nova.” I smile and hold out my hand, but her face goes slack, and her jaw hangs open. My heart begins to pound because she’s recognized me now. I can see it on her face. My name isn’t exactly common. What good does hiding where I really live do when I have a name like Nova.
Oh God, what if she saw that video? What if she tells someone I’m here? I shift from foot to foot through the electric spike of anxiety.
“No way. Nova?” she asks, like she didn’t hear me the first time.
“Yes. Nova.” I steel myself for her judgment, for the criticism. For her to point out what a fucking spoiled brat I am and how I deserved every single bit of backlash that drove me underground.
“Like the Nova that hooked up with my brother and then ghosted him and broke his heart forever?” Her voice carries zero harshness. She sounds almost amused.
