Page 101 of A Good Book

And the next.

I would tell my mom that I had sex with Gabby and deal with her disappointment and the risk that she’d tell Gabby’s parents. But I would not read a pile of letters about Gabby and Matt Fucking Cory.

By the fifth letter, I noticed something in the pile of torn pieces. It wasn’t white paper with writing. There were fragments of dark paper. I fished a couple pieces from the pile, then a couple more. A few of them had white markings. Curiosity took over. I didn’t want her venomous words, but I wanted to see what the black pieces were supposed to be. After I fished out all the dark pieces I could find, I deposited them onto my desk and pieced them together.

“What the fuck?” I stared at them. As panic set in, I grabbed all the torn up letters to put them back together, but it was useless, there were too many pieces.

My heart pounded, so I unfolded the next letter that I hadn’t ripped up yet.

Dear Ben,

The nausea has subsided. Hydrating works well along with a bottle of ginger ale mid-morning. I had a good birthday. Your card to me must have gotten lost in the mail, but thanks for thinking of me.

Our baby has a strong heartbeat.

Our baby.

Our. Baby!

I felt …

Before I could finish that thought, I ran to the bathroom and threw up the contents of my stomach.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE

ROXETTE, “LISTEN TO YOUR HEART”

Gabby

I didn’t wantto be a complete disappointment to my parents when I returned to Devil’s Head for the summer, so I buckled down and focused on my classes. Straight A’s were out of my reach, but I aimed to get all D’s raised to C’s and a few C’s up to B’s. It was easier to concentrate with the nausea gone. And aside from having to get a few more elastic waistband pants, and a couple of new bras for my bigger breasts, I felt good.

I felt beautiful.

Good and beautiful without Ben. Every morning, I started my day with the mantra “I don’t need Ben.” It was the only way to keep it together, to not spiral into a dark hole thinking about Ben and Laurel.

While studying for my developmental psychology test, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, how’s it going?” Matt asked.

“Good.” I lied. “How are you?”

He chuckled. “Good. Nothing new. I’ve been busy, but since I had a minute, I wanted to check on you. Is there anything you need? Help studying? Pickles and ice cream? Want me to help you tell your parents?”

“I’m good,” I giggled, and it felt good, like a real breath of air in my deflated lungs. “And I know you hate keeping this secret with me, but I appreciate it.”

“I was hoping it would no longer be a secret, but I fear you’ll be heading home for summer break with news that might give your dad a heart attack.”

I hummed. “You may be right.”

“Do you ever wonder if Ben read your letters, but just didn’t respond? Didn’t …” Matt stopped short of saying the rest, but I knew what he meant.

Ben didn’t care.

Of course, that thought went through my mind, but my heart wouldn’t let the words escape. It wouldn’t let me give them power. Maybe it was in self-preservation mode because the idea of Ben knowing but not caring was too unbearable.

It was too unforgivable.

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