"I like birds, too."

His voice causes Violet to snap her head from the book she's been mindlessly flicking through. She thought about reading the latest installment of the A Song of Ice and Fire series, but she thinks she's dealt with too much death for the time being. She's curled in a ball on the bed, an elbow rests on top of the pillows as she leans her head against her bent fist, gazing at the boy with the messy pale hair, sunken eyes—it looks like he's about to cry!—and faded sweater and jeans he's known to wear. If it isn't sweaters, or striped shirts, it's usually cardigans. His taste in fashion is more askew than hers.

She doesn't say anything. She's been home from school for the past week, now, the bug she has preventing her from doing anything than resting. She has a doctor's appointment later today; Violet doubts it's nothing she doesn't already know, but if it puts her mother's mind at ease than it's the least she could do. Apparently her dad fucked up again (so much for the baby that's supposed to make everything better). Violet is only half-listening when he speaks about why he likes birds so much; they're free, he says. They can fly away when things go to shit. Violet has to give the smallest of smiles at that. Birds are kind of lucky.

"Are you depressed?" He asks, so childlike it makes her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. Violet nods, lashes batting against each other tiredly. She can't keep anything down much less sleep without waking up in a pool of sweat (or wake up to full blown nausea that makes her spend half the night holding the toilet. Pepto-Bismol doesn't do shit.) "I'm sad." She answers softly, almost matching his childlike quality, and it's then Violet realizes that regardless of what kind of soul she's said to have or how much she hides behind her fearless bravado, she's still only fifteen-fucking-years-old.

He'll be seventeen forever, she tells herself.

"Me too," the agreement startles her more than she realizes. This time, when he gives his speech, she listens, because there are tears brimming in his eyes and she's too enthralled to look away. She almost feels so very, very guilty, because the way he speaks to her tells Violet that he's innocent. She isn't certain, he could be a very good actor, but her gut says he's innocent and that's that. It's also so much easier to believe him than not; she didn't just give him her virginity on Halloween, she also gave him her heart, body, and soul. "I love you. There, I said it. If you want me to leave you alone I will. You know why? Because I care about your feelings more than mine."

That's it. She doesn't care what happens, what's true and what's not—not anymore. All she cares about is spooning behind him, inhaling his scent that's a mixture of boy-musk, soap and dust. She must've fell asleep because before she realizes it, she's being shaken softly by her mother. (It seems Tate left before she woke up.) "Come on, sleepy head," she says in that all too soft, calming voice that soothed her when she was sick as a little girl. "It's time to head out for your appointment. Then when we get back, I propose the entire night we watch stupid romantic comedies and make fun of them." Just like before. Violet gives her mother a sleepy grin. Truth be told, Violet has missed spending time with her mom, but something tells her Tate needs her more right now—or maybe she needs Tate more right now?—so she declines with a believable excuse. "I would, but I have homework I need to catch up on."

Vivian's disappointment is nothing but subtle, but the subject is dropped during the car ride.

The car ride is hell.

If her nausea could get any worse, it has, since as soon as they enter the Doctor's Office Violet beelines for the nearest restroom to blow her chunks. It didn't help matters that recently she's felt bloated up the wazoo. Gas and nausea aren't welcome in Violet's body, but they choose to remain unwanted guests all the same.

"Harmon?" The Medical Assistant calls after a good thirty-minute wait.

The sooner they get this over the faster she can crawl back in bed. Truth be told, being around Tate marks the first peaceful night's rest since Halloween. She didn't even feel nauseous around him.

Vitals are written down, information is written down, and she pees in a cup even if it's barely enough to fill. If she thinks waiting to be seen by an Assistant is long and boring, sitting on the table top, kicking her legs back and forth while waiting for the doctor is even worse. Vivian squeezes Violet's knee supportively, giving a small smile that makes Violet so fucking grateful her mom is as awesome as she is. Really. After everything they've went through? Her mom is pretty much her hero right now. What seems like an hour later, an Indian woman enters the room with polite, civil smiles to the two female Harmons and small talk to seem nice; basically, the traditional bullshit doctors pull to their patients, when Violet just wants one to be real and say thank you for your paycheck.

"When was the date of your last menstrual cycle—I mean, period, forgive me—your last period, Miss Harmon?" The doctor asks.

Bitch.

"I know what that is, you can stop your bullshit," Violet pointedly ignores her mother's scolding glare and continues. "…um, last month maybe? My periods are irregular and moving across country, as well having your home broken into, kind of gives you a shitload of stress. Why?"

"Are you sexually active?"

Double bitch.

Violet regrets wanting her mom to be in here with her in an instant that question leaves her mouth. Shit, shit, shit! "Yeah…"

This time she can't ignore the look her mother gives her. Despite all her bravado, Violet winces, because she knows she's going to have Hell to pay when she gets home, or worse: the talk.

The Doctor gives a slow nod, peering at Violet from under her glasses, before taking a deep breath. "It seems the cause of your nausea, Miss Harmon, is normal for the first trimester of pregnancy."

"What?" Vivian looks incredulously at Violet, which makes her wince a second time. "You've got to be kidding me! It's that boy, isn't it? The boy your dad has been treating, Tate, right? Oh my God—Violet! You're so much smarter than that!"

Violet wants to say something, anything, but she's pretty sure this wave of nausea is from nerves rather than anything else as she slides off the table top, rushing towards the trash can to expel the truth of the situation. If the car ride was awkward before, its piece of cake compared to the stony silence that followed after.

Tate's right: birds have it easy. Violet can't exactly fly away from this shit and she's pretty sure her room will be her gilded cage for a very, very long time.