All the Dangerous Things(64)

My chance to make up for my past.

So one morning, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, the silent click of the lock making my heartbeat rise to my throat. I can still picture myself standing over that toilet and pushing my birth control pills through their foil casing, one by one, and into the water, like they were some kind of ceremonial sacrifice. The tickle of anticipation in my stomach as I flushed, watching them spin in circles until they disappeared altogether. Ripping Ben’s clothes off as soon as he got home and lying in silence together afterward, wondering. Waiting. Trying to somehow feel it happening beneath my skin.

And I felt guilt, yes. The shame for lying and even a little twinge of embarrassment at having stooped to something so devious and low—but also the thrill of having some semblance of control over my life again.

Of making a decision for myself for once.

To be honest, I didn’t really think it would happen—or at least, not that fast. But it was only a matter of months until it hit me: a wave of nausea so intense that my arm shot out to the side and grasped the kitchen counter with a grip so tight it was startling. I remember closing my eyes, pursing my lips. Forcing the vomit to glide back down my throat before running into the bathroom and collapsing onto the floor.

I remember reaching slowly for a test, the still-full box wedged and ripping, where I had hid it in a dusty corner like a mousetrap, ready to snap at my fingers.

“Ben?” I had yelled, my eyes boring into those two pink lines, unsure if they were real. “Ben, can you come in here?”

But then, I remembered: He wasn’t there.

Months went by, and things continued to change, only not in the way I had hoped. I watched as my skin pulled and stretched and dimpled like Play-Doh; as my ankles swelled up and my belly button popped. I smiled as old coworkers placed their palms on my stomach, feeling the kicks and commenting on my glowing skin, but all the while, I felt like I was hiding something: a dirty little secret they couldn’t possibly understand. Because I could still remember that moment in the bathroom, the initial reaction that flared up so quickly, like that first bout of nausea I pushed down just as fast. I remembered what it was like to sit on that tile, test in hand, my eyes drilling into those two pink lines as the silence of my house, my life, echoed around me like a scream underwater—somehow both strident and smothered at the exact same time.

Before the tears and the excitement and the joy kicked in, I felt something else first. Something I didn’t expect.

As sudden as a blink, barely there, I felt a stab of regret.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO




There’s coffee in the kitchen. I heard Waylon get up this morning, shuffle down the hall, and put on a pot. I heard the sputter of the water, the screaming steam. The clank of ceramic mugs as he pulled them out of the cabinet and set them on the counter, pouring himself a cup and walking into the living room. The scent trailing behind him before branching off and wafting down the hall, under my door, looking for me.

I’ve been sitting in my bed all night, that image from the laptop branded into my mind: me, grabbing Mason out of his crib in the dark. Holding him tight against my chest as he wriggled and writhed, that little stuffed dinosaur still clutched in his fingers.

I’ve been thinking about that old man’s twitchy smile and cloudy eyes as he stared straight into mine, daring me to remember.

I creep out of my bedroom slowly, hesitantly, like a drunk emerging from slumber after a boisterous, bleary night.

“Morning,” Waylon says, tipping his mug at me. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Yeah,” I lie, avoiding his eyes. “Sorry about last night. Disturbing you.”

“Don’t be. Are you feeling better?”

I ignore him, grabbing the pot and pouring myself a mug, pushing my palms into the warmth so hard it hurts. Then I walk into the living room and join him on the couch, pulling my legs beneath me like a toddler.

“So, can we talk about it now?”

Waylon laughs, placing his mug on a coaster as he shakes his head slowly.

“Getting right to it, huh?”

“Well, that is why you’re here, isn’t it? To help me find my son?”

There’s a flutter of something behind his expression: that millisecond of preparation that always presents itself just before someone steels themselves to lie. It’s easy to spot, as long as you know where to look: the tension in the jaw, the hardening of the eyes. It disappears just as quickly as it came, but still. It was there.

“Of course it is,” he says, leaning back and picking up his mug again, fidgeting. “I just thought you’d want a second to wake up first.”

“I’m just curious, is all. It seems like you’ve had more luck with Dozier in a week than I have in a year.”

“Sometimes fresh blood helps.”

“I see that.”

Waylon looks at me, his fingers pulling at a fraying thread on the couch.

“He told me he’d be open to letting me listen to some interview recordings, maybe use a few for the show,” he says at last. “I’ve read the transcripts, anyway.”

He takes a sip of his coffee and smacks his lips, clearly satisfied with his answer. And that much is true, I suppose—only he’s omitting the fact that he already has them.

“Which interviews?” I ask. My cup is still untouched, steaming in my hands.