Wilde by Abby Brooks
Chapter Four
Amy
I press my hand to Mom’s gravestone and give myself permission—just for now—to stop pretending my life isn’t completely screwed.
“I thought he’d only be a fling, Momma. That one really dumb thing I did in my twenties to prove how spontaneous I can be.” My eyes well up for the bajillionteenth time since I left Inked, and I angrily swipe away the tears.
“I was right about that. What I did was a really dumb thing.” I wrap my arms over my stomach. “His name is Leo. And he’s good looking, and talented, and he’s got this whole aloof but charming thing going for him, but he’s also the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. Just imagine your worst nightmare. That’s basically him.” A sad laugh spills out as I sit back on the grass and turn my face to the sky, grateful for the warmth on my skin. “I just thought, you know, if I let myself have that experience… If I did the opposite of what I was supposedto for once, I’d be taking the reins of my life—or whatever.” My eyes roll themselves at the naiveté of the statement.
“Epically dumb, right? And now I’m royally screwed and have no one to talk to about any of it. I left school. Broke up with Avery. Ghosted on Morgan because I knew she’d talk me into keeping everything the same. She’s supposed to be my best friend, but I’m not sure she deserves the title…”
Tears tickle past my temples and into my hair as I lie back on the grass and watch the clouds float overhead. I didn’t expect Leo to drop to one knee and propose the moment I told him I was pregnant, but I did expect him to believe me when I said the baby’s his.
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that he immediately assumed I was lying.
As if I would lie about something this important. Surely that says more about him than me.
Seriously, someone who goes around telling strangers they’re Wilde with an E has to have issues, right?
Speaking of issues…I’m going to be a single mom. And a college dropout. While living with my dad because I can’t find a job. Maybe I shouldn’t be throwing stones.
You’re wallowing, Ames.
Totally over feeling sorry for myself, I decide I’ve given Leo enough mental energy for one lifetime and try to find something else to focus on. I make it as far as the fact that I’m not going to have a mom to help me through this before the tears well again.
God, I wish she was here. I wish I could’ve known her now.I imagine us sitting around the kitchen table and smile. Her, seated directly across from me, arms folded over her chest, her brow furrowed. The two of us arguing about the situation I’ve gotten myself into and what I’m going to do now. But then, at the end…no matter how mad or worried or upset she is, before she lets me leave, she opens her arms and invites me in the for the safest, warmest, I-got-you-est hug I’ve ever had.
Life really sucks sometimes.
The warmth on my skin ebbs as a cluster of clouds float past. My thoughts drift to all the people out in the world right now, rushing through their lives, worrying about this thing or that. All of it equally trivial or mundane in the grand scheme of things. I wonder how many ever take the time to look up and appreciate the beauty surrounding them.
During, not after.
“Hey, one more thing,” I call to my mother’s headstone as I stand and brush myself off. “Any suggestions on how I break this to Dad? He’s going to go ballistic.” The thought of his eyebrows hitting the ceiling is enough to bring a smile to my somber face. Then another when I realize how preposterous it is that I’m lying around a cemetery in the middle of a weekday, crying about my life. Like any of that is going to do a damn thing to change it.
Enough feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time to take control.
* * *
It’s after ten by the time I walk through the front door. Dad sits in his recliner reading a book, although I’m ninety-seven-and-a-half percent sure I caught him looking for me through the window when I pulled in. I give him a quick hug then book it up to my room before he can ask questions. I’m gonna have to tell him what’s going on eventually, but now is not the time.
Tonight, I need to figure out what I’m going to do about a job, an apartment, day care. I’m sure Dad will say I can stay here—once he calms down from his initial explosion—but raising a kid in my childhood bedroom just feels wrong. I need a plan. Big time. I’ve got several mental lists running on how I want to handle the future and I need to get them into my notes app before I lose them.
As I close my door, my phone buzzes with a text from a number not in my contacts. I plop onto my bed and unlock the screen.
555-4212: If you aren’t completely full of shit, I’m in.
555-4212: How are we going to do this?
“Are you kidding me?” I ask with a laugh and a roll of my eyes. Obviously, a guy like Wilde would expect me to just know who he was without explanation. And double obviously, he was right, because that’s exactly what happened. I don’t know if that makes me madder at me or at him.
An unexpected ding-dong from downstairs snaps me out of my thoughtsand I glance at the time. Ten thirty-five? Who would be crazy enough to come by at this time of night?
The sound of footsteps on the stairs raises the hair on my arms.
“Amy?” My father softly knocks at the door. “You have a visitor.”