I awoke to Charlie.

Sitting primly beside me, he laughed at my surprise.

“You really thought you could escape?”

All suited up, he took my hand and tugged me along, out of the car and to the trunk.

“You should’ve believed me. I told you I’d never change.”

He opened the trunk to show Brock. He was wide awake and staring at me with that same accusing expression. The bullet wound in his forehead didn’t stop him from blinking every so often.

“Poor guy. Should’ve given him a chance. People aren’t always how they seem, you know.” Charlie’s mocking hiss jarred me out of my reverie.

I turned to see Charlie scratching at a scab on his nose that hadn’t been there before with newly yellowed hands. His eyes were bloodshot and his yellowed hands grabbed me and shook me over and over again.

“You should have believed me. I told you I’d never change—never, never, never, never, never.”

I was shaking back and forth with the “never” when my eyes snapped open.

* * *

I scrambled to sit up, looking left and then right, even then not able to fully admit to myself that it had just been a dream. No, I had to get out of the car, stride to the trunk, open it, and stare into the emptiness before I could confirm that the whole episode with Charlie and Brock hadn’t been real.

And yet, the unreal dream had had some real effects. Charlie had said what I had known already, what I had been unwilling to say myself: Despite Russell Snow’s claims, Brock Anderson was a good man. I had made a mistake, and now I was going to right it.

I drove to Tiffany’s.

Seeing me at the door, she immediately asked, horrified, “Oh God, what’s wrong?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

She flung the front door open, spread her arms, and let me in.

Tiffany’s house was a meditative exercise in relaxation. She seated me in the well-named Blue Room on a cobalt, velvet divan before scurrying off to make tea.

While she was gone, I studied the familiar room, its sky-blue wallpaper, sapphire-studded lamps, and cyan pottery. Every blue item had its blue place. How could I tell Tiffany what I’d done? She would never understand me sleeping with a man I had barely known, taking a job I had immediately sensed was no good. And yet…maybe she would.

On the couch across from me was an afghan. It was the black silk one left over from when the room was black, the year my colorful, vibrant friend had become a darkened shell of herself. The disappearing boyfriend and his baby were nothing more than a sad memory, now that she had a doting husband and a wonderful life. Tiffany had made mistakes too. Maybe she could understand.

The well-chosen blueberry tea coaxed it out of me. Her red head tilted to the side, her mouth gaped into a small “o,” Tiffany sat there silently while I told her everything. I told her about the job, Russell Snow, Brock Anderson, what I had done, and how I felt about it.

At the mention of avoiding Charlie, however, Tiffany could stay silent no more.

“Oh, Alex, I’m so glad!”

She pulled me into a pink taffeta hug.

“Kyle and I—that man came here too. We’ve been so worried. You should get a restraining order.”

I nodded, my gaze flicking to a blue stack of books on her shelf: Wuthering Heights, Romeo and Juliet, and Jane Eyre.

“Maybe, but that’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Oh?”

“Brock Anderson. I really like him, Tiffany. He was a good man, and I may have just ruined his life.”

At this, Tiffany shook her head, each twist sending rivulets of red curls into their own wild shakes.

“No. No way, Alex. He ruined his own life when he decided to be a criminal.”

I shook my head.

“No. You didn’t understand, Tiff. It was his friend that got him into that whole world. And besides, he was on his way out when I encountered him.”

Tiffany’s stern look was as firm as ever.

“You don’t know that. Some people don’t change even when they say they’re going to.”

At her allusion to Charlie, I fell silent. I didn’t need to be reminded of another one of my mistakes.

“So what are you going to do now?” Tiffany asked, sipping at her blueberry tea.

“I don’t know—look for him, find him again. I did it once. I can probably do it again. And then I’ll go to him, apologize. I don’t know.”

Tiffany nodded, though she looked undecided.

“Alex, what if he doesn’t want to be found?”

I shrugged.

“I have to try. I’ll do whatever it takes; I’ll call the police, ask Russell Snow, anything. I’ll find him, Tiff. I have to.”

Tiffany nodded again, this time staying silent.

She didn’t say it, though I knew she wanted to: I’d set myself up on a fool’s errand.

After our tea was finished, Tiffany swept up and said, “Well, you have to stay here!”

When she was halfway to the door, she added, “That is, at least until we’ve got your restraining order and Charlie has cleared out.”

Curled up on the couch, I was too cozy to argue, too tired to say anything but, “All right. I’m just going to talk to him one last time first.”

Tiffany turned around and walked back over, her arms folded.

“That’s a bad idea, hon.”

I shrugged.

“I mean it, Tiff. I’ll stay here and I won’t take him back, but I need to talk to him one last time.”

“Okay,” Tiffany said, her arms still folded. It was written all over her face how bad of an idea she thought this was.

* * *

The next month was a flurry of doing. It was one desperate attempt after another to locate Brock.

I contacted every other private eye I could think of and pestered Kyle until, after the fifth time telling me the police had no new leads, he actually told me to “lay off it.” I even tentatively reached out to Russell Snow, whose eagerness at hearing from me evaporated once he realized that I needed information from him, not the other way around. So preoccupied was I with my hunt that I almost didn’t notice that my period hadn’t come. That was until Tiffany moaned at me from the bathroom to bring her the Tylenol. After I slipped the little red cylinder through the door, I took out my phone and flicked through my calendar.

November 1^st, 8^th, 15^th…yeah, I should’ve had my period by now.

I shoved my phone in my pocket. Over my shoulder, I gazed into the Blue Room, at the black silk afghan. My period must just have been late.

A few days later, however, there were no more excuses. There was only a sick twist in my gut that chased me out of the house and straight to the drug store. Once there, I unobtrusively inched down the aisle to get what I needed. I scanned the options dully: one perky pink package, another aptly blue and pink box, the teal store brand. I snatched up the most expensive one to be sure the results would be accurate, and then beelined it to the cash register.

There, I handed the test along with my cash over to a makeup-caked cashier, who eyed my purchase with the charcoaled stare and half-smile of a woman who’d seen it all.

Then I rushed back to Tiffany’s.

I flew into the bathroom so fast that she could only manage a “hey, how’s it—” before I was gone.

After locking the door, taking a deep breath, and staring in the mirror at myself, I was ready.

I took the white piece of plastic out of the perky pink package and stared at it. One line meant I was fine, free. Nothing to worry about. Two lines, however, and my world was about to turn upside down.

Another deep breath and took the test, my body trembling. Then I washed my hands and waited. I kept the plastic white thing at the edge of the counter, out of my line of sight. Three minutes was how long I was supposed to wait, but I didn’t time it. I was going to wait until I felt comfortable checking it. The only problem was, the longer I waited, the less comfortable I felt.

By the time Tiffany knocked on the door and asked if I was okay, it had clearly been at least 10 minutes, and I was no more ready to check the results than I had been before.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I said. Then I turned so I was looking at the innocuous little white stick.

I had to check. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

So, my hand shaking, I grabbed my pregnancy test, flipped it around, and gasped.

Two lines. Two very distinct, unmistakable pink lines. I was pregnant.

I chucked the thing at the mirror, grabbed the other one, and rushed back to the toilet. This attempt I timed out on my phone: three minutes, then two minutes, and then, finally, one. My shaking hand picked up the second test and flipped it round. I slumped to the floor.

Two lines. I was pregnant. There was no doubt about it this time. I was pregnant, and I was doomed. I had consigned the father of my child to be chased by horrible people, maybe even killed. I had nowhere to go now, no one to blame but myself. I had made a horrible, terrible mistake. There was only one thing to do: throw myself headfirst into the mess, probably making the mistake even worse, making everything worse.

My still shaking hand picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“I can meet you today,” I said. “Doug’s Day Diner in an hour.”

I staggered out of the bathroom, hearing Tiffany saying words but registering only that I had to keep moving, had to get out of there.

Once in my car, I started driving. As I drove, I turned on the radio and then hit the scan key, going from station to station to station. I passed by nice music, bad music, annoying voices, melodious voices, irritating ads, mysterious readings. I passed through them all, because I wasn’t looking for any of them, really. I was looking for what I wouldn’t find, not on the radio and not anywhere. I was looking for what to do now.

I never found it. Instead, I arrived at the diner. It was just as I remembered it: taupe plaster and clear windows for walls, purple-lettered sign. I went to our usual spot, the purple table by the window, and waited. I was thirty minutes early, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did. All I knew was that I had to see one of them, and since Brock wasn’t an option, my other mistake would have to do.

He came seven minutes late with a sullen expression, like he was the pregnant one. He slumped in the chair across from me. It was the other nostril with the scabbed chapped skin this time.

“Took you a while,” he said. “Where have you been? I waited around for days.”

He didn’t seem to notice that I didn’t respond; I wasn’t here for that. I wasn’t here to absorb him, for him to ooze onto.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I’m pregnant.”

He scratched at his nose, and when his hand came away, his eyes were on me. It was a cold, unfeeling gaze—an uncomfortable sneer, like I’d said something unseemly.

“My, you have been busy while I’ve been away, haven’t you?”

I gaped at him, at this man I was inexplicably drawn to, at this poison I still couldn’t quite quit.

I knew what to do, and, better than that, suddenly I could do it.

As if he hadn’t heard me, he started talking, the words bleeding from his lips like an open wound.

“You won’t believe what these past few months without you have done to me. I got in deep, real deep. Way worse. Drink all night and looking for more all day. I lost my job, Alex. You know the one we always joked would never let me go? I’ve got nothing now; even my old friends won’t have anything to do with me. I had to sell everything, even that nice watch you bought me. But that isn’t anything compared to what I’ve been through missing you. I can’t sleep. It’s not the body; it’s the broken heart.”

His voice was high-pitched and loud, railing into my brain. People around us stared, and he scratched at his nose.

“I know how it looks, okay? It’s just different this time. Different.”

Time paused so I could get a good look at him, at this broken man who was almost unrecognizable from the boy I’d fallen in love with. The boy had been an artist with a broken smile who had sung me a song the first time we’d met, who had run with me from one end of downtown Boulder to the other so we could arrive in time for my friend’s show.

And yet, there was nothing of that boy in this man before me, this being reduced to a want, a need, an urge. Charlie wasn’t here for me; he was here for more money, for it.

His face had been hollowed in by it. Deep circles dug under his pink-rimmed eyes. His nose was rotting away from the inside out from it. His skin was yellow and sickly from it. And still, it was what he wanted. Not me. Not for years now.

I stood up.

“Alex,” he said, “I’ve missed you. Where have you been? I need you.”

I walked out of there, and he followed.

“Alex, I’ll change. I’m different. I’m two weeks sober. I’ll change. I’m changing. I swear I’ll change.”

Even in my car, after I’d closed the door, he stood beside it, imploring me with eyes I didn’t look at, with a voice I could just barely make out.

“Please, Alex. Please. I’ll change. I’ll—”

I lowered the car window. I shook my head at him.

I said, “No, you won’t.”

Then I drove away.