A/N: Found this old thing on my computer. Set during Season 4, episode "Small Victories." This feels like pretentious shit but I had to. Not sure if the timing/sequence is exactly right, but just please go with it.
Oh my God you're breaking up with me…
The panic hits you then, the current pulling you under towards the past. Your hands rise. They tug and pull at useless hair. This can't be happening.
In my car – AGAIN.
You've seen all this before. But no, it's never been like this before.
Are you okay?
You nudge her shoulder in what you hope is a supportive kind of gesture.
I'm pregnant.
Your support falters for a moment, your hand falling off her shoulder into the abyss. You can't quite think. Twenty minutes 'til the first bell. Is that really your first thought? And why shouldn't it be? Your gaze drifts to the kids across the street. You sense their smiles in the vaguest sort of sense. How dare they, when you can't even breathe?
You shake when her voice jolts you back to this reality, faraway in your ear.
There's only one option, right?
It doesn't feel like a question. You can't believe it. She's not… is she? You tremble.
That's not –
Your hands won't stop shaking. Your thoughts jumble and garble and make assurance and thinking and all words difficult.
– the only option.
Still, your hands won't stop shaking. Can Amy see them, too? You try to steady them for her. You bring them down to the wheel. She won't look at you. This feels like some sick Lifetime movie. Fuck, could this really be your life?
You don't know what to say. The far off look in her eyes tells you she doesn't either. You both head into school because that's, at least, what kids are supposed to do.
When you see her later in the hall, you just have to tell her the words that have been on loop in your head all day. They've become ingrained. You don't see anyone else but her.
I love you. You hold onto– something – anything – her arm – her – for some semblance of balance, but she pulls away. You feel off kilter. I want to make this work.
She runs.
You do nothing but stare without seeing. It's a miracle you make it to Amber's apartment alive. You two don't say much, but you're glad – a little bit less than the day's awful – that you came just the same. You think she cries more, but then maybe it's just a close tie.
There's nothing to be do without coming off as a misogynist fuck.
You say it aloud, and Amber almost laughs, though you feel like a murderer, calculating in cold blood.
Later, you stumble upstairs to the cold comfort of your new old room, Amber's assurances ringing in your disbelieving ears. You trace patterns on the walls, on the ceiling, on the inside of your heart. Lord, please stop this thinking. You wish for an off switch. These thoughts are the worst.
A sudden knock on the door sounds. It's Mom, of course. You fake normalcy. Normal – if only.
She's all evasive and wondering. You feign innocence, all jittery and heartbroken.
Then the bombshell – Mark came to see me. Of course he did.
You want to tell her. Sometime. Maybe. You don't know. Eventually. On your terms. You can't say the words aloud. Maybe you never will. It's too soon. Much too soon. You're six months shy of graduating high school. Too soon. Much too soon.
If only.
But she believes your act. You feel two parts defeat, one part sorry relief.
You go back to your bed to think some more. Your legs hang off the edges, while you beat back the image of her bare feet and yours (in those black dress socks) intertwined under the covers that long ago summer night, your breath fast entangled on the other's skin –
No – no no, damn it, no no no no NO.
These thoughts are not conducive at this point in time, you say to yourself. Will there ever be a time for them now?
You think some more, seeing as you haven't found that off switch. You think until your heavy eyes find themselves defeated. You wake remembering. She needs cash. She doesn't need you or your support or your hand. Just the money. You grab it out of the stash in your sock drawer and run before you can do any more thinking.
But then when you're waiting at the clinic that next morning – could it have only been one agonizing day's time that passed? – she squeezes your hand at the last possible second and you think maybe you'll get through this somehow, both of you together. But the look on her face – those too young, too vulnerable eyes – when she leaves the clinic with you, her arms crossed over her sweater tight, tells you she's cut you out of her life. For good maybe?
It's maybe for the best.
Do you blame her? You don't know. It doesn't seem fair. Not to Amy, not to you. You suppose Amy is allowed to get more sympathy. It's her body, after all. Her decision. That's the way it should be. That's what Grandma and mom and Aunt Julia and Aunt Kristina and Amber have always said, though for so long you were too little – stupid? – to understand.
But… didn't you play some part in this, too? Isn't this why you're here? This doesn't have to just be her responsibility. You're not your dad. You'll stand with her. You've never felt surer of anything in your life. Amy has always been that sure thing… when she wasn't gone, that is. And here she is, beside you in the car, but she's certainly not here. Her eyes wander. You wonder does she feel as distant as that rising sun. You couldn't reach her if you tried.
A far thought crosses your mind, as you return to school, like kids are supposed to do. The boy she left you for all those months ago. Not a boy, more like a man. Hulking and brutish. Could he…?
No. You beat the very thought away. No no no no no no no NO.
What good will it do? Nothing. No good. She needs space. It's not like you can ask her, "So… that baby – er – fetus you just aborted… was that mine? Or… your ex's?"
No. The deed has already been done. And besides, it wasn't yours or his or even hers, for that matter. It doesn't exist anymore. It's left, it's gone, a worry no longer.
And even if it was…his… doesn't she get some time to think, without your intruding questions?
Then again, she's done enough thinking for the both of you.
Could it have only been one agonizing day's time that passed?
She didn't listen. Not when you told her you loved her, or when you wanted to make it work, or when you said there were other options. She didn't listen then. She didn't turn back, even though, wretchedly, you're sure she saw right through you at the start of the water works. You never were supposed to cry. Not in front of anybody. But there you are now, alone in your car, fist clenching the wheel.
You decide to skip school. You go to your mother. Last time you saw her… you don't even want to think about it. You don't want to think anymore. All you see is a baby, screaming and laughing and smiling and crying and you see it in Amy's arms, and you just watch horrified, as she falls, sick, disgusted, as your mom picks it – her – him? – up right before it – she – he? – hits the ground.
She sings it – her – him? – to sleep. The screaming ceases.
Mom pulls you to her now, as soon as you walk-stumble inside. She cries at just the sight of you. You don't want to think anymore.
There was only one option, wasn't there?
Oh, Drew, honey.
She smooths your hair under her hand, tucks your head under her chin. You feel like a child – but aren't you? In what universe shouldn't you be? The tears you feel tear your heart apart. You beg them to disappear…the scars, the tears, the hurt, the broken edges of your whole wrecked heart.
If only.