Her Swedish Billionaire's Baby: A BWWM Pregnancy Romance For Adults (3 page)

Samara didn’t
have enough money for books, so she did all her studying in the
library. It was nice, actually--better than hanging around in her
dorm where it was all scared looks and titters behind her back. She
didn’t dwell on the possibility that coming to college had been
a mistake after all. Okay, so things sucked, but at least she had a
place to sleep and enough to eat and dad wasn’t having her lie
to debtors and whatnot all the time. So she didn’t have a
family or a single friend. She couldn’t decide if the trade-off
was worth it, but it didn’t matter. This sucked, her life
before sucked ... it was as if her very existence was a mistake. She
was used to it.

The one good thing
was starting classes, learning things. She was riveted by all her
subjects, raising her hand in class and asking every question she
had, which also earned a lot of stares, for some baffling reason.
Weren’t these other kids also here to learn? But they made fun
of her for being so into it. She’d tried three times to strike
up an intelligent conversation with other students, about her
favorite books or the latest discoveries in science or things they
were learning in class, to be met with either blank stares or vague
ridicule. She remembered being accused of being a teacher’s pet
in high school, but this was college; she thought all that would be
over by now. Anyway, she was nobody’s pet; in the big
lecture-hall classes, no matter how many questions she asked, she
doubted the instructors knew her name.

Apparently, when
Alison called her a freak, which she did almost daily, she was right.
Samara had always thought she was just being a jerk, but apparently
Alison, who had way more social skills than Samara could ever hope to
develop, knew something Samara didn’t. Samara didn’t know
what made her a freak. Maybe it was some sort of taint on her, some
vibe she gave off that she’d never been aware of, because she’d
spent basically her whole life with Dad and Alison. Maybe she was an
outcast in her own family because she would be an outcast anywhere;
within her family was simply the only place where she would be
forgiven her taintedness.

She gave up trying to
talk to anyone, enjoying the anonymity of a large college campus,
since any time she did try to talk to someone, she ended up making
herself an outcast in yet another social circle. Yeah, she was
lonely. Depressed, maybe. She wasn’t really sure. There was a
constant ache in her heart that she learned to live with, like she’d
learned to live with never having anything she wanted. Things were no
different overall; she’d simply given up one thing she needed
for another. Sometimes she wondered if in leaving her family and
being disowned, she’d given up the one consolation life had
grudgingly handed her, but it didn’t seem to matter. Everything
had been stacked against her from the time she was six months
old--maybe even since before she was born, or at least, that’s
how it had always felt. No matter where she went or what she tried to
do, somehow it would always end up being a mistake.

A month or so after
classes started, she was studying in the library when someone sat
down across from her. “Hm ... Homer,” she said. “I
love Homer. Doughnuts, choking Bart, causing meltdowns.”

Samara was in fact
reading the Iliad--not for the first time by any means--it was one of
her favorites, though not nearly as awesome as the Odyssey, which had
always seemed almost like a metaphor for her own life. It was one of
the first books Samara had ever read, since Dad kept a copy on hand
for one of his cons where he was a well read man of the world. Samara
glanced uncertainly over the book and saw that she was looking at
her. She smiled at her awkwardly and went back to reading. Not one
word she’d said had made a lick of sense to her.

“
You
think I’m a complete fucking idiot, don’t you?” the
girl murmured.

“
No,”
Samara said politely, and went back to reading.

“
I
do know who Homer is. I mean, that Homer.” She pointed to the
book, which Samara set down, since apparently the girl wanted
something from her. “But ... you have no interest whatsoever in
talking to me, do you?”

Samara smiled
wistfully. “Trust me, it’s not that.”

When she tried to
leave it at that, the girl quirked an annoyed eyebrow. Man, how did
she manage to piss people off saying virtually nothing? “Then
what is it?” she challenged.

“
Well
... you would think I was a complete idiot if I tried talking to you.
Everybody seems to.”

Oddly enough, this
seemed to please the girl. She looked ... charmed. “Try me.”

“
I,
uh ... I have no idea what you were talking about. Doughnuts, what
...?”

She grinned once she
understood what Samara was referring to. “Not a Simpsons fan?”

“
I
... have no idea what that is.”

“
Didn’t
have a TV, growing up?”

Samara thought back.
Never, when they were renting a place, unless it came furnished, and
that almost never happened. As for when they were staying in motels,
Alison was always using the TV to try to arrange to get some free
cable. She’d seen some stuff here and there, but apparently not
that. Samara shook her head and picked up her book again, sure that
would be the end of the conversation.

She came over to her
side of the table, tossed her books down, and sprawled into the chair
next to her. “No wonder you’re reading that like you find
it interesting.”

Samara lowered her
book again. “It’s one of my favorites,” she
announced unapologetically. She was sick of pretending to be normal,
especially when it didn’t help, anyway.

“
Oh.
So, then ... I sound like a real asshole. Sorry.” The girl put
a leg up on the table and sighed.

Samara eyed her leg.
“The librarians are gonna kick you out,” she said
quietly, as a public service. Alison had always thought it was
hilarious what a do-gooder Samara was, always trying to help people
out and keep them from humiliating themselves, but she couldn’t
help herself.

The girl grinned at
her, and suddenly, she looked pretty, like her beauty was something
she usually hid from the world. That little glimpse, realizing she
wasn’t the only one who had something to hide, arrested her.
“Aren’t you the little Girl Scout?”

“
Really
not,” she said feelingly. The girl was one of those who thought
they were badass, and by societal standards, probably were, but even
they would be horrified by stuff Samara considered commonplace and
everyday.

The girl eyed Samara
while she tried to read. Finally she gave up and set her book down
again. “What do you want?” she said, feeling like she was
back in her old, normal life again for a second, where she was always
having to confront shifty characters and divine their motives.

The girl really liked
her question, like it made her feel as if she was playing the
mysterious villain in a movie. “Well ... I don’t want to
interrupt your love affair with Homer, there ...,” Samara
rolled her eyes, “but, uh ... my room is a much nicer place to
study. We could order a pizza.”

“
Why
would you invite me to your room?” she snapped. She looked
stunned--and there it was, another flash of what was
underneath--hurt.

“
Sorry,
never mind,” she muttered, and got up.

Samara stood up with
her and grabbed her arm. “Wait. I’m sorry. I’m just
... I’m new here, and I haven’t gotten the warmest
reception. You’re the first person who’s been nice to me,
so ... I just ... didn’t know how to react.” She must
have jarred loose her mask, because all her feelings were plain on
her face: vulnerability, hope, sympathy ... and a very familiar
loneliness. She was lonely, just like her. Anyway, even if she did
have some nefarious intention, she knew how to defend herself. “If
the offer still stands ... yeah, I’d love some pizza.”

So this was what her
dorm-mates were doing when they were hanging out together in their
rooms without her. She hadn’t seen the point--usually they
claimed they were ‘studying,’ but obviously no studying
was getting done--in fact, they didn’t appear to be
accomplishing anything at all--but now she got it. It was just nice,
to hang out and get to know someone, talk about school or life or
whatever, eat pizza, anything. After a while, she found herself
smiling. She felt like she was really having that ‘college
experience’ she’d seen in movies and read about in books.
They didn’t even pretend to study.

“
So,
no TV, eh?” she said. She had a single room, too, and she’d
pushed the two twin beds together so she had one big bed. That was a
good idea--if she did that in her own room, maybe she would be able
to fit her whole body on the bed, if she lay across it diagonally. As
it was, her feet hung off the end. It took up most of the floor in
the tiny room, but it was comfortable to sprawl out on. “Were
your parents against it or something, or could you just not afford
it?”

Samara thought about
the answer, how it would only lead to more questions. Anyway,
thinking of Dad and Alison stabbed her in the heart. She wasn’t
sure she’d be able to talk about it at this point without
crying, so she said quickly, “I don’t want to talk about
my family, but ... tell me about yours.”

“
Oh,
I have to tell you about mine and you don’t?!”

“
No,
I ... sorry. I have no social skills.” She shrugged
apologetically. “It seems like most people like talking about
themselves and don’t really care about what anyone else has to
say, so I thought that would make you happy.”

She smiled. Somehow
she only seemed to find all her awkwardness charming. Samara was
beginning to gather that the girl’s tough persona hid a fear of
people. Maybe her awkwardness made her seem appealingly
unintimidating. “I am interested. Okay, no talking about them,
but ... short-answer questions, one for one. How ’bout that?”

She shrugged amiably.
Just getting to talk to another person and put the agonizing
loneliness at bay for one evening was bliss. She’d probably say
yes to anything she proposed, at this point.

She smiled, squirming
slightly closer to her on the bed. “Were you poor?”

“
Yes,”
she said without hesitation, and without expression. Actually, the
answer to that question was complicated, but that was why this
short-answer format was good. “Were you?”

“
Nope.
Rich. Disgustingly rich.”

She grinned at the
thought and rolled to face her, to see her expression. She was
grinning, too. “What’s that like?” she asked
eagerly.

“
It
was awesome. That was two questions; now I get to ask you two.”

She subsided. “Oh.
Sorry ....”

She squirmed still
closer. Their arms were touching. “What are your siblings’
names?”

“
I
just have one. Her name is Alison.”

“
Older
or younger?”

“
Older
by four years.”

“
Were
you close?”

“
That’s
three questions.”

“
No,
I was catching up on the two questions you asked me, then asking my
question.”

“
I
think your math is off ....”

“
Just
answer!”

Samara thought about
Alison, and a lump appeared in her throat. She had to breathe and get
a handle on herself a long few seconds before she could answer.
“Yeah, we were close.”

She seemed to realize
she’d hit a nerve. She touched her arm with a finger. “Sorry,”
she said softly.

“
It’s
okay,” she said quickly, unable to stand the idea of making her
feel bad when she was so nice to her. “It’s just ... I
wasn’t supposed to go to college; they see it as a betrayal,
like I abandoned them. I expected my dad to disown me for it, but ...
but not Alison.”

Her face was only a
few inches away. She stroked her cheek. “I’m sorry,”
she whispered.

“
It’s
okay. It’s just ... hard to talk about.”

“
I
know. I’m sorry for asking. I’m sorry for making you talk
when you didn’t want to.”

“
Please
don’t apologize; you didn’t know. I’m just happy to
be here with you right now. After everything, it feels so good--”

Her grinning face was
revealed once it was gone, beautiful and fragile and vulnerable. It
stopped her short. She hung her head, trying to catch her breath. “I
don’t even know your name,” she said finally.

“
Amy,”
she said, looking confused. The mask was beginning to return.

“
I’m
Samara,” she said, rolling off her.

“
What--what
happened? Why--?”

“
Amy.
This isn’t a good idea.”

“
Why
not?” she said, beginning to sound offended.

“
I,
uh ... am a mess, as you’ve seen. I don’t know what you
were hoping for, but ... you know, I’m not sure I’m even
friend material. And ... I’m not really a ... good person.”

“
Well,
neither am I!” she retorted, as if her minor infractions of the
rules of etiquette somehow made her really bad news.

“
Yes,
you are,” she said softly. Her hopeful, vulnerable face was all
she could see, even with her eyes closed and her head in her hands.

“
How
can you say stuff like that and expect me not to want to be your
friend?” she demanded, and Samara couldn’t help but laugh
a little.

“
Amy,
I want to be your friend too. It's been a while since I had a friend;
it would be nice.”