Page 72 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
“Is that really what upsets you?” He takes my hands and makes me look him in the eyes, like he’s pleading with me to see something as plain as day.
“I’ve tried so hard to trust them. But how can I when they do this to me?”
“Bambina.” He pats my hand and shakes his head. “Do you love them?”
“I…” Do I? Maybe? I don’t know. Probably.
“Because it sounds like you’re afraid. That makes you lash out.”
My mouth drops open. Dad gives me another meaningful look before he goes about preparing lunch.
34
Avery
I’m still stewing in my dad’s comments as he puts together lunch, boiling a fresh pot of water, and the homemade noodles he has sitting under a towel go in. We sit in silence as they cook.
Do I love them? Maybe that’s an easier question than I’m letting it be. Am I afraid? Yes. I’ve been afraid this entire time. Afraid of feeling something similar to that fairytale week in Cancún with Ezra—something more and real—and having it ripped away from me again.
Dad drains the noodles and sets three plates of artfully twisted spaghetti topped with his homemade sauce, sausage, and a meatball the size of my fist. A slow grate of Romano cheese and a sprig of basil complete the meal.
I miss this when I’m not here. It’s like eating at a restaurant, and even though his meals are simple, they’re always beautiful. Tasty. Fulfilling.
I help him set the table as Charlie washes up, and we sit to eat. The meatball is dense but soft and covered in a rich tomato,garlic, and parsley sauce. The sharp cheese adds the perfect accent. But as I chew, something sours in my mouth.
It’s not the ingredients, though.
This confirms that something’s wrong, but the more I chew through the odd flavor lingering on the back of my tongue, the more suspicious I become of the culprit.
The last time my tastebuds were off like this was ten years ago… shortly after my trip with Sophia for Spring Break. About a month after, to be more specific.
Oh, God.
Pressing a hand to my stomach as it churns, I excuse myself to the bathroom, snagging my bag on the way. Once I’m locked inside, I bend to the nausea and turn on the taps, running my wrists under cold water until the sickness passes.
I splash cold water over my face before I fish out the pregnancy test I bought last weekend. The moment I woke up with heartburn three days in a row, I’d given in and gotten one.
And now, I’m done fighting the inevitable question looming before me. It’s time to find out the truth.
I pee on the stick and set a timer on my phone as I wait.
Then, I stare at it as it counts down. I can’t bring myself to do anything else.
Except worry over the possibilities. Whose it might be. How we will handle it.Ifwe will handle it together, or if I’ll be on my own again.
What both of those options look like.
It’s so many unknowns, all at once. I’m overloaded and ready to crawl out of my skin by the time my phone beeps. I don’t hesitate. I’ve been antsy for this moment.
Turning the pregnancy test over, the clearly printedPregnantappears on the small screen. Well, there’s no guessing how many blue lines there are.
My stomach roils again, but this time, I puke up everything my father’s fed me.
The doorbell rings as I’m washing my mouth out. It can’t be for me. None of them know where my father lives. Who else would come looking for me?
I swish more water through my mouth, spitting out traces of acid.
“Avery?” Dad calls.
