Authors: Aubrey Brenner
Secondary Colors
copyright © 2016 aubrey brenner
all rights reserved.
no part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. the exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
this book is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
editing: j & j
book design: aubrey brenner
book image:
www.stock.adobe.com
to mom,
maybe you’ll actually be able to read
this one without blushing.
the part of a painting that appears further away from the observer, less detailed
I’m pregnant. The two most terrifying words in the English language. More so, when you’re a freshman in college. I hadn’t planned on being a cliché statistic, obviously. But that’s the harsh truth of my reality. I’m pregnant at eighteen.
It only took one time. That dead horse. Literally, my first and only. It was the end of summer and everyone was so emotional about leaving our little pond to enter the great big ocean. We got swept up in everything and, well, one plus one equals two—or three in our case. Most would probably believe we weren’t safe, but we were. Three lousy percent.
Now, to tell the other one in this equation. I’ve overthought this time and time again. I’ve gone over every possible scenario and opening. From, ‘
Happy Holidays, Aidan! I hope you don’t mind if my present is a few months late, I’m making it now’
. To,
‘I know we haven’t seen each other since our night together last summer, but I thought you should know I’m knocked-up! High-five! Nice shot!’
No matter how I manage to spill, he’s always devastated by the news. How could he not be? How do you tell someone their life might be over before they really have a chance to live it?
This is why I’m sitting in my car outside his family’s enormous house in the middle of a New Hampshire winter, my hand hesitating over the handle of my door.
I place my other hand over my swelling belly, the flutter of life stirring inside me. She isn’t even here yet and I already fear for her safety and happiness. I’m not far enough along to know whether or not the baby’s a girl, but I sense it in my rounding gut.
“There’s no turning back the clock now. We only have forward, little girl.”
I breathe the first full breath I’ve taken since I pulled up to the opulent lakeside house, and then exit the car. The initial steps are the hardest, but they get easier with momentum. I step up to the over-sized front door with my fist balled and ready to make contact. It takes me a second to actually knock. It’s weak. I doubt anyone heard it. I’m about to do it again when I’m greeted by the shrinking glare of his mother.
“Yes?” she says, her voice unemotional. She’s never been very warm toward me. I don’t know why. But the chilliness of her demeanor rivals the bone-cold of the weather.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Channing.”
Her stone eyes fall to my stomach. Even under my sweater and jacket, it’s easy to see my protruding womb. When they target back on mine again, her piercing gaze is no longer icy. They’re on fire.
“I-Is Aidan home?”
She peers over my head, as if she were expecting someone else.
“Come inside.” It’s an order, not a welcoming gesture. She steps aside to allow me access to her expensive and perfectly furnished home. She guides me to the living room toward the back and then motions for me to sit on one of the two couches opposite one another with an impressive wood and glass coffee table in the middle.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks. She only does it because that’s what you do when a guest comes to your home, you offer them refreshments. I take the offer with a grain of salt and nod my head. She walks into the modern, open-air kitchen while I contemplatively stare out the two-story glass window at the lake and forest surrounding it. It’s snowing heavily now, but I swear I make out my house across the frozen water through the endless drift of powder. I take my strength from it, hoping to get through this in one piece.
When she returns with the tea tray and sets it on the table, I put my focus back on her. She sits on the couch across from me and begins to pour the tea into a cup. Not asking how I take it, she simply adds sugar and cream and slides it across the table. It’s a hostile gesture.
“Would it be possible for me to speak with Aidan now?”
I pick the cup from the table and taste the herbal warmth.
“No, Evie, it isn’t.”
“Is Aidan home?”
“Whether he is or isn’t, has nothing to do with why you won’t be speaking to my son.” She sips on her afternoon drink and wipes the corners of her mouth, even though there isn’t anything to wipe. She’s stiff, every move calculated. “I know what you wish to speak to him about, and I have no intentions of allowing you to ruin his life. You’re more than free to ruin your own. However, I won’t sit idle while a Hathaway screws up my son’s life as well.”
As well?
“I think that’s Aidan’s decision to make,” I politely disagree, setting my teacup on the table between us.
“He’ll never find out about this,” she says with unwavering certainty. “I want you to get rid of it, preferably before the birth. I’d hate to have genetic evidence of this problem out in the world. It could come up to bite him later.”
I’m horrified into silence.
She picks a checkbook off the tray. I hadn’t noticed it before. I was focused on the situation. She opens it and retrieves the gilded pen tucked between the sheets, probably worth more than my entire wardrobe.
“How much do you want?” she asks, her eyes trained on the blank check, the pen ready to jot down any amount it’ll take to keep me quiet.
“You’ve clearly misread my intentions, Mrs. Channing.”
“Everyone has a price,” she states confidently. “It’s simply a matter of negotiation.”
“I don’t want your dirty bribe money.” I rise from the couch, realizing we won’t see eye to eye on this. “I won’t be bought off.”
I see myself out. I’m halfway down the foyer when she says, “He’ll never forgive you if you ruin his life, too.” Her words stop me in my tracks. “Do you think he’ll ever see this child as anything more than a burden, a noose around his neck? Who do you think he’ll blame for that? You’ll be the girl who destroyed everything.” I face her, vibrating, tears of anger, hurt, and betrayal threatening my stinging eyes. “You may not want my money, but if you’re smart, you’ll get rid of that thing and move on with your life.”
Thing?
“One day, you’ll regret this, Mrs. Channing. It may not be tomorrow. It may be years from now. When that day comes, it’ll be too late.”
I turn on my heels and walk back to my car with steadfast footsteps, my boots crunching in the white powder. I want to run like the wind, sensing she’s watching me leave. But I won’t allow her the satisfaction of my defeat. I open the squeaking door of my Nova and slam it shut with a screaming groan.
In the safety of my ice-covered car, I place my hands over my womb once more. There’s no flicker of her inside me this time. Her tiny heart is broken.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, rubbing my palms over her, trying to sooth my unborn child, my fatherless child.
As the snow flitters to the ground, my tears do, too. Small trickles growing into big, fat tears, soaking the front of my sweater.
“I’ll figure this out,” I weep, now cradling my arms around myself. “I won’t let you down, baby. I promise.”
