Page 48 of Freckles

Finished, I lie back beside her, combing my fingers through her hair. My chest is close to bursting when she tucks up her legs, snuggling closer. The light snores tell me she’s dozing.

It’s her first time and even though I held back, she’ll be sore. I’ll need to let her recover, maybe get her a toy to practice with until she adjusts to my size.

My mind fills with possibilities, but I don’t say them aloud. She needs time to get on the same page.

If I tell her now, it’ll overwhelm her.

But as her breathing slows, falling deeper into sleep, I can’t resist whispering, “Everyone else might have abandoned you, Freckles, but I’m here to stay.”

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

FRANCESCA

I wakebefore my alarm the next morning, confused to find myself naked under the covers when I always sleep in a long t-shirt. I stretch my legs and feel an unfamiliar ache.

Then I sit bolt upright.

Kincaid.

I jump out of bed, dragging on a sweater and jeans. Even before I poke my head out of the bedroom, I know he’s gone. I sense his absence more keenly than I felt his presence yesterday, when I first arrived home.

When I enter the kitchen, there’s a note pinned under a fridge magnet.

See you in school, Freckles. Don’t make me come find you.

I screw it into a ball and toss it in the rubbish bin. It only gives me an hour to work out a plan, and there isn’t a single coherent thought in my head.

To chase away the fog, I make coffee, but it doesn’t help. I don’t know what to do, how to feel. My brain is numb and my hands and feet tingle.

Calm down.Think!

But that’s easier said than done.

I gulp the hot drink, then make another and drain it just as quickly. The sticky stinging sensation between my thighs drives me towards the bathroom and a hot shower, scrubbing myself until I’m red, swimming in déjà vu.

The water runs cold before I step out of the cubicle, still dazed. The world feels just out of reach.

When I go to the bathroom, wincing at the tenderness, I recall Kincaid babbling about filling me with cum and my mind snaps into focus.

I’m only eighteen.

I can’t have a baby.

And I especially can’t have a baby with an utter madman.

Rushing to my mother’s deserted bedroom, I check through her drawers, searching for birth control pills, knowing she always had spare in her bag, in the car.

One accidental pregnancy ruined her life. She wasn’t about to risk another.

In her bedside cabinet, I find condoms, lube, and an old vibrator with the rechargeable port rusted into uselessness. The drawers on the opposite side hold a stash of old cards I’d made for birthdays, mother’s days, Easter.

They’re tatty, but they’re keepsakes, made with every ounce of my childhood love.

My mother took a three-quarters-used tub of Vaseline when she left, but not these.

A surge of grief holds me in position, scraping all the good thoughts from my head until my mind is raw. I still don’t want to accept she ran away and left me stranded. I can’t handle what that says about me.

But for the first time, a jolt of deep anger cuts through the sludge of my emotions.

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