“Hi, Mama.”
A squirrel peeks out at me from behind a branch.
“I don’t know if you know this, but … I’m gonna be a mama too.”
A bird chirps in response.
“I probably won’t be as good of one as you”—I ball up my sleeves in my fists—“but I’m gonna try.”
The wind chimes I made in art class tinkle and twirl.
“I got vitamins today … prenatal ones. And fruits and veggies, too.” I beam through my sudden tears. “Aren’t you proud of me?”
A gentle breeze whips around me, ruffling my hair like one of Daddy’s noogies.
Silent tears stream down my face, but I don’t fall apart. I wipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and tell my parents what I came over here to say, “I love you guys … I’m so sorry they did this to you.”
The moment the words leave my heart, I feel a little bit lighter. Not because the weight of my grief has lessened—I don’t think it ever will—but because I’m carrying it differently now. It used to feel like a ball and chain around my ankle, but now, I’ve picked it up and put it on like a backpack.
I feel a little bit stronger.
A little bit more capable.
And for the first time in days, I feel really, really hungry.
I don’t want to leave them. I don’t want to go back into that house with those people and all that stuff that isn’t mine, but I have to start thinking about more than just myself. Everyone I’ve lost has a chance to live on through this baby. Their blood flows in its tiny veins. If I can bring it into the world safe and sound, I might even get to see them again.
The baby might have my mother’s mischievous smile or my father’s button nose. I might be able to gaze into Wes’s pale green eyes again or run my fingers through his soft brown hair.
My heart skips a beat as I turn and head for the back door.
Water. I need water. And a can opener. And a spoon.
I jiggle the handle and sigh when I realize that it’s locked. Of course. I knock on my own damn door and wait for someone to let me in.
Seconds later, I hear the click-clack of the deadbolt. The door swings open, revealing one squeaky-clean Carter Renshaw wearing nothing but a pair of loose athletic shorts, as shiny and black as his sopping wet curls and bruised eye.
“There you are.” He tries to smile but then hisses as his fat lip splits open again. He dabs the cut with his finger and steps aside to let me in. “We were looking for you everywhere.”
“Really?” I deadpan as I walk past him into my dining room. Their dining room.
The sight of Carter with his shirt off used to instantly turn me on.
Now, it just pisses me off.
“Where were you? My mom made pancakes.”
My mouth waters instantly as I pass through the doorway into the kitchen. The aromas of pancakes and sausage and coffee fill the air. My eyes land on Mrs. Renshaw, drying her hands on a dishtowel as Sophie wipes down the counter.
“Well, good mornin’, sunshine.” She beams, turning to face me.
I’m shocked at how different she looks. She must have found a wig in the wreckage of their old house because her hair is suddenly sleek and shoulder-length, like she used to wear it, and I swear she even has on mascara. Her dress is ironed. Sophie’s, too. And they’re both wearing probably every piece of jewelry they own.
“Rainbow!” Sophie cheers, bouncing over to give me a hug. Her plastic bracelets rattle with every step.
I mechanically wrap my arms around the girl and glare at her mother over her head. It’s the first time I’ve seen Mrs. Renshaw since Wes was taken yesterday, but my urge to stab a utensil in her eye is put on hold when she grins and lifts a plate in my direction. My stomach growls out loud when I see what’s on it.
“How did you—”
“When life gives you a box of Hungry Jack, runnin’ water, and a freezer full of thawed deer sausage, you make breakfast! And lucky for us, y’all had pancake syrup!”
Sophie releases me and skips back over to the counter to get me a fork and knife from the drawer.
“Thank you,” I say to Sophie instead of her mother, accepting the cutlery as Mrs. Renshaw’s sparkling eyes land on her son.
“Carter, why don’t you keep Rainbow company while she eats?”
The intention I see in them makes my stomach turn and my jaw clench but not enough to keep me from devouring this food.
I walk back into the dining room with Carter on my heels and sit down without acknowledging his presence. Not that he even notices. He plops down across from me and begins rambling on about everybody he saw at Burger Palace last night.
“Yo, you remember JJ, right? From the football team? That motherfucker is swole now. He was standing right out front, sellin’ steroids and workout videos! Can you believe that shit? And I swear to God, I saw Courtney Lampros blowin’ somebody between two parked cars. I’d know that fake red hair anywhere.”
Yeah, I bet you would.
I swallow my last bite without even tasting it and hear someone begin talking even louder than Carter up in the living room.
“Good morning. This is Michelle Ling, reporting live from inside the Fulton County Courthouse.”
My fork clatters onto my plate as I dart up the five or six stairs to the living room, where Mr. Renshaw is sprawled out on the couch with his poorly splinted leg propped up on the coffee table, messing with the remote control. He points it at the TV, mashing buttons with his knobby thumb in vain.
“Gotdamn it! I was right in the middle of watchin’ Hillbilly Handfishin’! Now I ain’t gonna know what
