“I haven’t abused that trust, have I?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No. But don’t you see? I don’t just fuck you, Jonah. I bare my soul to you. Then we go back to being almost strangers to each other. The disconnect is getting to me, and I don’t think I can handle it anymore.”
Despite all our rules and resolutions, I have begun to have feelings for Jonah. To feel jealous of other women he might touch. To want to have not just his body but his heart. That means I want too much. Which in turn means I have to get out, now.
Jonah’s gray eyes become distant. The steel wall he keeps between himself and the rest of the world now separates us too. “If that’s how you feel.”
It’s not. I’m still drawn to this man in a way I’ve never felt for anyone else. While I thought that connection was purely sexual, I reveled in his power over me.
But now I want more from Jonah, and I have no idea what more would be. All I know is it’s not what either of us said when this began.
Goddammit, I’m going to cry. Not out here in the quad. Not in front of Jonah. I don’t have the strength for that kind of honesty; I’m all out. So I stand up. “This truly doesn’t have anything to do with you, okay? You were—my ultimate fantasy. Thanks for making that come true.”
Then I walk away. I never look back; I never stop hoping he’ll call my name, or run to my side, catch my arm, and keep me from leaving.
He doesn’t.
• • •
“You feeling okay?” Arturo says that evening, as we hang out in front of one of our favorite food trucks.
“Sure.” I scrape my shoes back and forth in the gravel beneath this red picnic bench. All around us, groups of people are eating the best fish tacos in town from small plastic baskets, using their cups to hold down brown paper napkins that would otherwise flutter away in the breeze. Shay’s gone to the truck across the lot to get us some churros for dessert. Nearby, a grackle hops toward our table and cocks his head in the hope we’ll drop a bit of food he can steal. Overhead, strands of kitschy multicolored lights with big, fat, 1970s-style bulbs stretch between the trailers and the tall tree near the road.
Arturo gives me a look. “That was the least enthusiastic ‘sure’ I’ve heard in a while.”
“I’m fine. Really. Just—having a down day.”
No doubt Arturo knows better than that, but he also knows when to let something go. “We all have those sometimes. You know what fixes down days? Tacos. So get to work, girl.”
“I think I’d rather fix today with churros,” I reply, because I see Shay walking back toward us. But then I realize she doesn’t have the churros. She has one hand to her forehead and is walking slowly.
Getting to his feet, Arturo puts a hand out to support her. “Feeling light-headed again?”
“Yeah.” Her smile is weak and watery. “You know, I don’t want to stick around for dessert. Can we just go home?”
“Sure, honey,” Arturo says. I mean to tell them it’s fine with me too, but that’s when I happen to glance downward.
When I see the red droplets of blood on Shay’s white tennis shoes.
“Shay—” I get up and support her other arm. “Don’t freak out, but—”
“Oh, my God.” Now she’s seen it too, and as we stare downward, another drop falls onto the gravel. And another.
“We’re going to the hospital,” Arturo says. “Don’t move, okay? I’m driving the car right here. You’ve got her, Vivienne?”
“Yeah, of course, go!” As Arturo runs for the car, I squeeze Shay’s hand. “You should probably sit down.”
“I’m okay,” she says faintly, as if nothing in particular is happening. I realize she’s on the verge of shock. So I put my arms around her to hold her steady and upright until Arturo gets to us—he’s already in the car, best to let her stand so we can get her into the vehicle and on the way as fast as possible. Shay’s head rests against my shoulder; the skin of her forehead is cool and clammy.
I’m scared, or so I think, until I look down and see the bloodstain spreading across her white skirt, darker and wider every moment. That’s when I discover just how scared I can be.
• • •
“Please, can Dr. Campbell come?” Shay pleads as the orderlies wheel her stretcher down the hospital corridor. Arturo and I jog beside them; he’s determined to stay with her until the moment they physically pry him away, and I want to be with him when that happens. “Is she coming?”
“An obstetrician will be here any second,” says a nurse in yellow scrubs.
“But I want my own doctor—” Shay’s voice is so faint. It sounds like she might pass out at any second.
As they get her into a room and strap a fetal heart monitor around her belly, Arturo clasps her hand. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. “It’s got to be.”
Please, I pray to a God I believe in but rarely speak to. Please let Shay be all right. Please let the baby live.
I’m ushered out just as the OB-GYN runs in, and I hear Arturo say, “Dr. Campbell!” before the door shuts. So her doctor was the one on duty anyway. Maybe that’s proof God’s looking out for the baby after all. Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. Either way, I’ll take it.
For the next couple of hours, I have two jobs. The first is to sit in the waiting room and try not to cry. The second—and worst—is to call Carmen and tell her what’s happening. Carmen arrives about ten minutes after she hangs up, in the faded jeans and ratty T-shirt I know she only wears when she’s working on her thesis. When she sits beside me, I hug her tightly; now we can only hang on.
Carmen whispers, “They think I don’t want them to have the baby, and if they lose it—”
“They’re not going to. And you’re going to be a great Tia Carmen. Wait and see. Hey, you want to help me throw the baby shower? Shay would love that.”
Slowly, Carmen nods. So I start talking about presents and party games and cupcakes and everything else I can think of that could possibly be at a baby shower, in the hope that all that pink and yellow and baby blue will erase the memory of dark red blood.
Finally Arturo walks into the waiting room. He looks exhausted and pale—but not broken. “She’s okay.”
“Dios mío.” Carmen jumps up to embrace her brother, and he hugs her back tightly. “What happened?”
“Something about the placenta—we have to watch it, but for now it’s okay. Shay can even come home soon.” His smile is crooked. “And the baby’s just fine.”
Carmen starts crying harder, and Arturo starts too. I might be an informally adopted sibling, but I realize sometimes I need to butt out and let them have a minute.
I walk out into the corridor and catch the attention of the nearest nurse. “Can Shay Gillespie-Ortiz have visitors yet?”
The answer comes from someone standing behind me, “Not right now.”
I turn around to see the obstetrician, a young woman wearing a doctor’s long white coat with the name tag Dr. Rosalind Campbell. She’s smiling, which ought to be the only thing that matters. But it isn’t.
I’ve seen this woman before. She was wearing white then, too. I saw her the night of the charity gala, first when we complimented each other’s dresses—and then when she left, with Jonah’s arm around her.
Eighteen
At first all I can think is, of course she’s a doctor. Rosalind Campbell, the woman in Jonah’s life, is stunningly beautiful, has impeccable taste in clothing, is friendly with strangers, and practices medicine. Couldn’t she at least have a wart or something?
But concern for Shay and the baby quickly eclipses my pettiness. “Arturo said she had something wrong with her placenta—isn’t that serious? Does she have to stay in the hospital?”