Part 4 (2/2)
But Jace is better than that. I know it.
I'm gently pulled to the side and a few moments later, we've walked right around Ian. Just like that. As if it wasn't a big deal. I draw in a deep breath and slowly let it out. I will not glance back. I will not try to have the last word. He's just not worth it.
I do a pretty good job of holding it together as we walk to Jace's truck. But the moment he closes the pa.s.senger door for me, I burst into soft tears. I turn to the right and pretend to be really interested in looking out of the window, hoping that I can get it together and stop crying before Jace notices. We pull onto the highway and a warm hand touches my thigh. This kind of comforting touch is always his way to let me know he's aware that I'm upset but isn't going to push me to talk about it. I know he means well, but I ignore him. I don't want to talk. I don't even want to look at him.
I spend the long drive home staring out of the window, watching the trees and buildings and cars zoom across the gla.s.s. The only thing I can think about is how, yeah, Ian might be a total a.s.shole, but he is right about one thing. I am a girl who got knocked up and then moved away from her hometown. I can dress it up as much as I wantI can say I'm engaged and I'm in love and pretend that I totally planned life to happen like it did, but that's not true. My pregnancy was an accident, plain and simple.
Sure, we're happy about it but we're also terrified. At least, I'm terrified. I don't know how to be a mother. My mom and Becca's mom a.s.sured me that motherhood would come naturally to me and that I'd be great at nurturing this baby when he finally arrives. But I'm not sure how much of that is the truth or just their hopeful wis.h.i.+ng. Aside from my happy relations.h.i.+p with Jace, I've never been good at anything in my life. What have I accomplished besides graduating high school with all the other students in my cla.s.s?
Not a d.a.m.n thing.
I didn't even pay for my own dinner tonight. Nor my wedding dress, or anything else I use in this life. I am completely worthless and a total drain on Jace's life and finances. He could be working more if it wasn't for me always wanting him to take a day or two off to hang out with me. He'd have a ton of money if he didn't pay my doctor bills and buy me stuff all the time. And he wouldn't be tied down to a life of being with me and our child if I had never entered his life and, in Ian's words, got myself knocked up.
I was supposed to go to college and get a job working at Mixon Motocross Park with Jace. But now that I'm pregnant, he suggested that I wait until our baby is a few years old before I start working. Jace doesn't want me to be stressed out and wants me to relax. Well how can a girl relax when she just realized she's completely worthless and a failure at everything?
Chapter 9.
I had hoped a good night's sleep would wash away all of the pain and turmoil from last night's run in with Ian. But all of that hoping and praying was in vain because as soon as Jace's alarm goes off in the morning, I wake up, stare at the ceiling and become overwhelmed with feelings of hopelessness.
And as much as I don't want to admit it to myself, seeing Ian after so long away from him brought back some awful memories. Not memories of happiness or longing, that's for d.a.m.n sure, but memories of that summer I spent away from home. Ian was the reason I had gotten grounded and sent away to stay with my grandparents for three months. He was the selfish p.r.i.c.k who begged me to send him a dirty photo from my cell phone and I was the idiot who went along with it.
I was so stupid back then. I can't believe I used to like Ian. Like, really like him. I thought about him nonstop and I doodled his name in my notebook like some kind of teenage airhead. All of that pathetic adoration was completely unfounded because Ian didn't do anything to deserve it. It wasn't romantic or charming. He treated me like s.h.i.+t and somehow that made me want to try even harder to make him like me.
I always had to message him first and he would take forever to reply. He never wanted to talk about my day or listen to my thoughts about things I cared about. He just wanted to hook up and when we couldn't hook up due to my curfew, or Mom being too strict, all he wanted to do was talk about hooking up. As much as I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from ever dating him in the first place, I can't. And I wouldn't even if I could, because Ian getting me grounded was what led me to meet Jace.
The bed s.h.i.+fts as Jace sits on the edge of the mattress to put on his shoes. ”Do you love me?” I ask, my voice raspy from a night of sleep.
”With all of my heart,” he says.
I roll over and bury my head in the pillow. ”Good,” I murmur as I feel the pull of sleep take over. ”I love you, too.”
At a much more manageable hour of the morning, after Jace has left for work, I finally wake up and find my best friend happy and looking less poisoned from gluten on the couch. She grasps a cup of hot cocoa in her hands.
”Ooohh, I want some,” I say, eyeing the steam rising off her mug.
She nods her head toward the kitchen. ”I've got the Keurig all set up for you. Just press the b.u.t.ton.”
I rush over and press the b.u.t.ton, smiling when I see she's chosen the ugliest mug in the cabinet for me. This mug was a gag gift from her to me when I moved in with Jace a few months ago. ”Every home needs an ugly mug,” she had said. ”Just to remind you where you came from.”
It is big and heavy and has an ugly Christmas sweater type print all around it. Pixelated reindeer shapes and big green and red faux-st.i.tching letters that read Happy Holidays. You can still see the twenty-five cent thrift store price tag written in permanent marker on the bottom because that stuff does not come off in the dishwasher.
Becca chops up a basket of strawberries, separating them into two piles for the both of us. I pour sugar on top of my pile and she rolls her eyes at me. ”That kind of defeats the purpose of having a healthy breakfast.”
I poke out my stomach as far as it'll go and pat it with confidence. ”Yeah, well I am eating for two and at least one of us wants sugar on these strawberries.”
We eat and watch trashy reality television and everything is fun and happy for about five minutes. Then, from out of nowhere like some kind of emotional punch to the gut, I remember last night. Ian and the way he made me feel. The things he made me think.
”You okay?” Becca asks. I nod and put on my best smile. It seems to work because she goes back to watching the TV. I'm tempted to tell her all about it. If I do, I know she'll launch into a verbal counter attack, calling Ian every bad name in the book and then telling me everything I want to hear. Things like how I'm not a s.h.i.+tty person and how I shouldn't let him get to me because he's an idiot and I am a great person.
If I told her about my emotional pain right now, she would hug me and make it all better. But I keep my mouth shut. I'm not sure if I'm ready to let all of this go and pretend like I'm not a ma.s.sive embarra.s.sment to myself and a disappointment to Jace. I'm not sure if I deserve to be comforted by a well-meaning best friend right now.
The Sunnyside Bakery is a small standalone building on the outskirts of Mixon. It looks like it used to be a Victorian style home, but over the years it was painted a pale yellow and transformed into a bakery. There are other bakeries in town and it might have been smart to sample all of them before deciding, but Sunnyside Bakery came highly recommended by Molly, who is the wife of Mr. Fisher at Mixon Motocross Park. I would be insane not to trust her opinion. Plus, I didn't trust my waistline if I had sampled from more than one bakery.
”Oh my G.o.d, this place smells so good,” Becca croons as we get out of her car. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. ”I think I just gained five pounds from by smelling the air.”
I wish I could share in her weight-gain-by-inhalation, but the smell of sugary foods just makes me nauseous at the moment.
There aren't any other people inside when we enter the bakery, but soft music plays from a speaker somewhere in the ceiling and the scent of freshly baked pastries lets us know someone is probably in the back.
”Are you sure she was expecting us?” I ask. Becca, ever the most perfect maid of honor, had called ahead and made us an appointment.
Becca nods. ”Yep. Stop worrying.”
Luckily, I don't have to worry. A plump woman with dark black hair emerges from the back room, patting her hands on the front of her pink ap.r.o.n. The name Carol is emblazoned on the top in curly letters made of rhinestones. ”h.e.l.lo there!” she says, waving at us from the other side of the counter. ”Are you my two o'clock?”
”Yes, ma'am,” I say, stepping forward and shaking her hand from across the cla.s.s countertop. Dozens of beautifully decorated sweet treats beckon to me from beneath the gla.s.s. ”I'm Bayleigh.”
”So nice to meet you,” she says, turning to my best friend. ”And, Becca, right?” Becca nods and shakes her hand. I'm not sure what Becca had told her when she first made our appointment, but I'm eternally grateful for the soft way Carol smiles at us and how she treats us like real customers. I guess in the back of my mind I had been afraid that I'd be treated with judgment for being so young. I shove my hands into the pockets of my zippered hoody. It isn't cold outsidein fact it's shorts and sandals weather as evidenced by my sparkly pink flip flops and cut off jean shorts. I just couldn't stop myself from wearing the hoody because it allows me to do exactly what I'm doing now: shove my hands in the pockets, zip up the bottom half and walk around covering my ever-growing belly. You know, just in case she doesn't know. Just in case some people don't know.
Carol seats us at a table in the center of the bakery and dashes off to retrieve our samples. I'm not sure what Becca has set up for us today because a week ago when she had called to ask about it, I was in the middle of a morning sickness puke session and had told her to use her best judgment because at that exact moment, I didn't give a d.a.m.n.
Becca gnaws on her bottom lip as she sits across from me. ”What is it?” I ask. ”You're not supposed to be more nervous than I am, you know.”
She chuckles. ”I just hope you like the colors and the flavors and stuff.”
”I'll like whatever you choose, I promise. You know me really well.”
Carol emerges from the back room and Becca draws in a deep breath. I want to roll my eyes at how irrationally silly she's being, but I don't because I freak out about the dumbest things as well. Carol sets a white cake box on the table in front of us. ”How many other bakeries have you tried?” she asks, sliding her finger under the cardboard flap to open up the box.
”None,” I say. ”Molly Fisher said we should come here so we did.”
Carol beams. ”Oh, Molly is the sweetest thing ever. Well, I hope you girls enjoy! What we have here is a sample of the double chocolate cupcakes and the French vanilla cupcakes. I told Becca you'd probably want both flavors so your guests could choose.”
I nod. ”Sounds good to me.” Carol continues talking about the natural ingredients and special flavors she uses, and still hasn't fully opened the cake box yet, so we can't see inside at the creations that wait for us, and I lean forward, antic.i.p.ation taking over my whole body. And then I see something on the box that makes me forget all about the cupcakes.
The paper order slip taped to the side of the box reads: Adams, Jace and Bayleigh.
Chills dance across my body. Carol's handwriting is a beautiful script and I love the way she swooped the cursive J and B of our names. But what I love more than anything is the way our names look together.
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