Francesca

 

I slammed the textbook shut and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a thump and slid down to the floor, pages fluttering, as I buried my head in my hands and let out a silent scream. How was I ever supposed to learn this stuff? The information just refused to stick in my head. I’d spent God knew how many hours with my head stuffed in the freaking book and yet what did I have to show for it? Nothing except a grade hovering right on the edge between passing and failing. If I bombed this class again, there would be hell to pay.

 

Of course, it was my own fault. I should have just passed it the first time around. But that was what happened when you stayed up all night with a handsome biker instead of studying for your exam. Ten out of ten academic counselors advised against doing something that stupid. I should have listened to the voice in my head, the one that had screamed at me to stay home instead of going to that party.

 

But I hadn’t. I’d listened to Bridgette instead, and ended up in a world of hurt. I still remembered Daddy’s voice, booming and slicing into my eardrums even though he barely raised his volume above a whisper.

 

You’re in a lot trouble, Francesca.

 

That hadn’t even begun to describe it. The wrath he’d unleashed upon me that night and the days and weeks following was like something out of the Bible. He alternated between a cold fury and the most insane bellowing I’d ever seen or heard. There were a few moments where I was legitimately scared for my life. And when he’d slapped me…

 

I shivered. The phantom pain of his hand across my cheek still lingered. He kept his ring on when he did it. I wondered often whether that was on purpose or not. Either way, I had a little scar on my jaw to show for it. A little memento from Daddy, a bright warning to the next guy to stay far, far away from me. I was damaged goods, but I was his and no one else’s.

 

I’d felt horrible in the aftermath of the party. Nauseous, trembling, wildly emotional. It was like my nerves were permanently frayed and the whole system was going haywire. I didn’t know who to blame—Milo or my father.

 

Even now, almost four months after the fact, I was ashen-faced and sweating, even though the bedroom was well below seventy degrees. I closed my eyes and tried to draw in breaths steadily, in through my nose and out through my mouth, to calm my fluctuating heartbeat. Breathe, girl, I instructed myself. It’ll be okay. You’ve just gotta let things go.

 

I supposed the easiest thing to do would be to just accept that this was my life now. I’d thought I was kept under lock and key before, but that was a hilarious understatement compared to what things had become. Daddy had installed tracking software on my phone that gave him updates every fifteen minutes on my location via GPS and logged every single text message I sent. I had a strict curfew of eight p.m. every single night of the week, without exception. If he weren’t going to be home himself to make sure I complied, he sent one of his men to check on me and lock the doors behind me. I’d have said that it was like being a prisoner, but at least people in jail had a realistic chance of escape. I had none.

 

The breathing was helping to bring my heart rate back to earth. I noticed my skin start to cool down as I kept my eyes closed and focused on the feeling of the air rushing past my nostrils. It felt good to be silent and still, to not have to study or clean or anything. Just sit. Just breathe.

 

Suddenly, something jabbed inside my stomach. It felt like the whole thing just lurched, like a muscle spasm or someone poking me from the inside. I bolted upright in surprise. Just then, I heard a flush and the door to my bathroom opened. Bridgette flounced in. She took one look at the startled expression on my face and her eyes narrowed right away.

 

“Are you okay, Francesca?” she asked with concern.

 

I stammered to find words. “I’m, uh, yeah. I’m fine. It’s just, um, a cramp. That’s all.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Yeah,” I said, managing to find some confidence to inject in my voice. “Totally fine. I’m gonna go to the bathroom, though.”

 

“Okay,” she said. She shrugged and flopped onto my bed, then picked up a magazine and started leafing through it. I clambered out of the desk chair and wound my way between the piles of clothing on the floor. Stepping into the bathroom, I shut the door behind me.

 

I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were wide and scared. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt a jolt like that, but it was the hardest one yet. I’d never felt anything like that until recently. And I was beginning to lose track of how many nights I’d spent sleepless in bed, counting up the number of weeks it had been since the party where I met Milo.

 

I hadn’t told Bridgette the full story. She was stunned enough that I’d taken Milo up on his motorcycle ride. For some reason, I didn’t want her to know everything that had happened after that. It seemed like a private thing, just for him and me to share and no one else. Maybe I just wanted to hold onto something between us. I couldn’t imagine he was doing the same.

 

At the time, it had felt so special, so unique. The way he looked at me, the way his hands and mouth grazed over my skin—I’d never had a moment that felt more real than reality. But with Milo, the whole night had taken on this otherworldly quality. I couldn’t shake it.

 

Yet in the four months since then, I started to doubt my memories more and more. He was a biker, a bad boy, a fuck-and-leave kind of guy. He sure as heck wasn’t sitting around reminiscing fondly about the wonderful lovemaking we’d shared. No, there was exactly zero percent chance that that was happening. More than likely, he was already onto the next girl, or the next dozen as the case may be. I was long gone from his rearview mirror. I’d be surprised if he even remembered my name.

 

It might have been the embarrassment of feeling so attached to a memory that he surely didn’t care about that kept me from sharing all of the details with my best friend. That would certainly have been a reasonable explanation, at least in my eyes.

 

But there was more to it. There were the symptoms.

 

Anyone who’d ever taken a sex ed class or seen a soap opera knew the signs. Nausea? Mood swings? Sudden pangs in the abdomen? I’d been fooling myself into believing that it was a physical reaction to the consequences of being discovered by my father, but deep down, I knew better. I knew the truth.

 

I was pregnant.