APRIL
When the show was over and my director called me backstage after the final bow, I thought something terrible was going to happen.
I'd been on edge all week. Our performance run was extended, and everyone was beyond exhausted. I was ready to be home in bed, or maybe at Jackson's sleeping in his bed while he studied, but either way - I wasn't prepared to be chewed out by my boss. I wasn't sure what I did wrong, even as I went back in my memory while I walked to meet him.
"April," he said, once I approached, still in stage makeup and full costume. "There's someone who'd like to meet you."
I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering who this person might be. It was silly to assume that it might be a fan, I don't have fans. People don't know me yet. But someone specifically asked my director to meet me?
I felt like I might throw up. This was only icing on the cake to my stressful week, the week that'd piled on worry after worry - all of which I shouldered myself. Jackson was busy, I didn't want to burden him with my problems. I knew they'd end soon enough, but now I wasn't so sure. I was going in blind, unsure if what I would be met with was kind or scary.
"They want to meet… me?" I asked, shooting him a confused look.
"Follow me."
We walked down the long hallway behind the stage, coming through to a private dressing room once we reached the end. Waiting inside was a sharply-dressed woman in a pantsuit, looking official but for reasons I wasn't sure of. I didn't know who she was.
But she smiled when she saw me. She knew me.
"April," she said, extending her hand. I shook it, firm like I was taught. "My name is Jennifer Michaels, and I'm a casting agent with the Aquila Theatre. We're based in New York City. I came to Chicago, drawn by the buzz you created with not only your current role in The Glass Menagerie, but with your role in White Christmas, as well."
"Oh," I said, unable to form a coherent thought. "Welcome. Um, welcome to Chicago. Would you like to sit?"
We sat across from each other, my director to the left of me, and Jennifer continued to talk.
"You're a newcomer to the big stage," she said. "And I can't help but notice your fresh, vibrant presence. Seeing you was an opportunity I couldn't pass up - I've heard amazing things about your live performances, and I was not disappointed."
I wetted my lips. I couldn't believe the words this woman was saying. I knew I was talented, but not to the point where I could catch a casting agent's attention from New York City.
"Right now, our touring company is putting up a production of Sense and Sensibility. Auditions were held over the past two weeks. But because I knew I'd be coming out to see you, we left the role of Marianne Dashwood open. And I'd like to offer it to you."
My throat was so dry I couldn't swallow. But I did my best, and accepted the role without thinking about any of the repercussions. Because there was a casting agent sitting in front of me, offering up my dream on a silver platter.
The regrets flew in when Jackson called later that night and tried to catch up. I was quiet, withdrawn, thinking of how everything would inevitably change. My life was about to flip on its head. The last performance for The Glass Menagerie was the following week, then two days later I would head to New York to start rehearsals with the cast for Sense and Sensibility. And after those rehearsals were done, we'd start the tour.
Everything was happening so fast. I couldn't help but feel like I was gripping at tree branches and leaves as I sped along, only to have them ripped from my hands by pure force.
"Are you okay, baby?" he asked, having just talked about his day at school while I did anything but listen. I felt guilty. I was supposed to be his biggest supporter, and I was lost in my head, worried about my own problems, forgetting he still needed me. I still needed him, too, of course. But I couldn't figure out a way to tell him my news. My amazing, heartbreaking news.
I'd never experienced something so beautifully tragic.
"I'm fine," I lied, staring at a fixed spot on the wall. I was supposed to go over to his house that night, but canceled last minute. I didn't think I could look him in the face while harboring my secret.
But now, in this moment, I have no choice. I'm sitting across from him at one of my favorite restaurants - and he knows it's my favorite, that's why we're here. I've barely touched my food, and he can tell something is off. I see it in his eyes.
"I have something to tell you," I say, deciding to simply put it out there. I can't think of another way.
Jackson's eyes narrow with concern. "What is it?" he asks.
I take a deep breath to try and center myself. My heart is pumping a mile a minute and my hands are trembling, so I keep them on my lap. I almost don't want to say it, don't want to make it real and palpable. If I keep this news inside my head, it's only a reality for me. Not both of us.
But I know I can't do that. For the sake of the future of our relationship, I have to put it out in the open.
"I was offered a role in Sense and Sensibility," I begin, and his eyes light up. But I'm not finished. "Not the lead role, but a good part. A casting agent came to my show the other night and talked to me. But…" I chew on my lower lip. He waits with trepidation, wondering what the 'but' might be. "The production is with the Aquila Theatre, which is a touring company based in New York City."
I meet his eyes. I can practically see his thoughts whirling through his mind as he tries to make sense of what I'm saying.
"They want me to fly out after my last show," I say. "That's next Friday. My first rehearsal for Sense and Sensibility is on Monday morning."
He parts his lips and runs his tongue over the bottom one, expression ever-changing. "That's… amazing," he says, nodding slowly. "But what does it mean? Touring? What is that?"
I sigh. "After rehearsals are finished, we travel all around the United States putting on the show. Most of the time, I'll have weekends off. I'll come back and spend time with you as much as I can." I wring my hands together under the table. "I accepted this without thinking about what it could mean for us. It happened so fast, I just… I just said yes."
"Of course you did," he says, voice smooth and gentle. "Why wouldn't you? This is an amazing opportunity for you, baby. I would've freaked out had you said no. This is… this is amazing. I'm so proud of you."
My chest lightens a bit, hearing that. "Yeah?" I say.
He lays his arm on the table, palm up, gesturing for me to place my hand in his. I lift mine from my lap and he takes it, squeezing softly while looking into my eyes.
"This is everything you wanted," he says. "New York City. This is big. This is bigger than anything you could do here. You have to go."
"I know," I say, breathless. "But, Jackson… it's okay to be upset about it. It's all happening so fast. I'm upset, too." I take a wavering breath. "A little. Maybe a lot. I don't know. It's hard to tell what I feel, it's all so much." I meet his eyes. "But if you're sad, or-or mad, or something, we can talk about it. Just tell me." I swipe my thumb over the warm skin of his hand. "This isn't happening in a bubble. It's us… I don't want to ruin…" I look towards the ceiling so my tears won't fall over the edge. "Are you upset?" I ask.
"I'm fine," he insists, with emphasis like he's trying to prove it to both of us. "I'm great. Your dreams are coming true. This is what you wanted when you came here, for someone to see you."
"You saw me," I say, my voice barely a peep.
He chuckles softly. "You know what I mean." He lifts my hand and kisses the top. "I love you, April. And you deserve this. You've earned it."
His words tell me he's proud, he's happy, he's ready for me to take the next step. But his eyes tell a completely different story - he won't hold on because he doesn't want to hold me back.
I'm terrified. I want him to be wary so I have a reason not to go, to stay where I'm comfortable, to stay with what I know. But that won't happen - he's much too selfless.
And I have a dream to catch.
…
We go home to my apartment after dinner, and he helps me out of my light coat once we get through the door.
"What you always wanted is happening," he says, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling my body flush to his. I feel warmth radiating from him in waves, that body heat I love. "Are you happy?"
It's a strange question. A strange question to which the answer should be easy, but it's not. I know I should be happy, and I am. But it's buried beneath a thousand other emotions towards what I've been offered. It's not as easy as simply 'being happy.'
"Yes," I say. "Of course I am."
He kisses me, long and slow, while holding my jaw in one hand and melding his mouth against mine. The kiss is possessive, dominant, like he wants to prove I belong to him.
"Show me," I breathe, once we break apart. "Show me I'm yours."
His hands find the skirt of my dress, which he pulls up and over my head, leaving me in a midnight blue bra and underwear. There are tiny rhinestones on the hips and straps; I wore them with a specific endpoint in mind. One we'll definitely find our way to.
He claims me with kisses. Without words, he tells me that no matter how many miles are between us, I'll always be his and he'll always be mine. Nothing will change that. When he opens his mouth on the swell of my breast and sucks it between his teeth, I know not a single other person will give me hickeys like he does.
When he disappears between my legs and licks me over my underwear, I moan his name and know no other will ever escape my lips.
Only his. It's like a mantra: only his, only his, only his.
I weave my fingers through his curls and pull his head closer, widening my thighs and grinding my hips against his face. He rubs his fingers sloppily over my lips, spreading the wetness he's created, and gives me a smoldering, lasting look.
"Right there, baby," I whimper. "Just like that. Don't stop. Please, don't stop…"
His kisses against my core are wet and loud, and hearing them turns me on even more. I love how he's not afraid to make things messy, push me to my limits, get his hands dirty. When he lifts up again, there's a sheen on his chin that came from me.
Right now is when I'd normally ask him to talk dirty to me, if he wasn't already. It sends me to the edge, makes me feel like a different person for a delicious second, but we don't go there tonight. Tonight is different, though I don't want to accept the reason why.
But I do know it. Tonight feels like a wax seal, a final note, an ending.
Like this is goodbye.
"Make love to me, Jackson," I sigh, closing my knees in on his shoulders to push him away from my throbbing center. "Show me. I need you to show me."
He agrees without words, positioning my legs to wrap around his waist and staring deep into my eyes; I've never felt a firmer connection.
But when he reaches for the box of condoms, I stop him with a hand on his forearm.
"No," I say sternly. "I want you. I want to feel you."
When he sinks inside me, there isn't an inch of skin on our bodies that doesn't touch. My arms are circled around his shoulders, my legs around his thighs, my face tucked into his neck. The weight of his body is something I cherish as his hips pump against mine, and I moan rhythmically with each thrust.
"That feel good, baby?" he breathes, kissing my shoulder.
"Harder," I say, dragging my nails down his back. "And slower."
He makes each thrust last, burying himself within me and staying there for long moments at a time. He sinks in up to the hilt, biting the soft spot between my shoulder and neck as he does, and I cling to him as tightly as I can, like he's the one who's about to slip away.
"I love you," I say, and realize tears are leaking from the corners of my eyes. "I love you."
"God, I love you so much," he grunts, kissing me with passionate intensity as I hold his face while he comes. "I love you so fuckin' much, babe."
I throw my head back when mine happens, arching my neck and exposing the skin so he can kiss it. His breath is hot on me, hands wandering and body heavy, but I don't want him to move. I want to keep him right here in front of me where I can see him, touch him, love him.
When we're both finished, he doesn't pull out. Not yet. He stays, overlapping my body, tracing my features and studying my face. When he gets to the bow of my lips, I kiss his fingertip and hold onto his wrist, pressing his palm against the side of my cheek.
When he rolls off, I wind myself around him. Both of us completely naked, I slip my leg through both of his and hug his waist, resting my forehead against the middle of his chest.
He tickles my back, and I start to cry.
I don't need to explain why, he knows. Before long, his chest trembles and I feel his teardrops drip onto my forehead and slide down to hit the pillow with tiny thuds.
We don't comfort each other with words. Instead, we lie there with our bodies tangled up, listening to the familiar sounds of the other's breathing and heartbeats, and come to grips with the fact that nothing will ever be the same.
…
The J necklace sits heavy between my collarbones as Jackson and I stand by the security line at O'Hare Airport.
I have a big, rolling suitcase to my right, resting on the floor with the handle up. My boarding pass is sticking out of the back pocket of my jeans, and the keys to my new studio apartment in the city are heavy in my purse.
I packed up everything I owned in Chicago and shipped it to my new place. I broke the lease with the studio here, and now my little home above the deli will be rented out to someone else.
"Tell me not to go," I whisper to Jackson, holding both of his hands as we stand among wandering groups of people, everyone headed in different directions. Going home, coming back, traveling for fun. Traveling to a new life they're not sure they really want. "Tell me, and I'll stay."
He squeezes my fingers and shakes his head slightly. "I can't do that," he murmurs, running his thumbs over my knuckles. "This is it for you, pink lady."
I take a step closer, my feet between both of his. He takes his hands from mine and holds the small of my back, and I shrink my arms against my chest as I lean into him.
"I love you," I whisper, my cheek against his heart. "I don't know what I'll do without you."
"You'll be okay," he says, rubbing my back. "We'll see each other on weekends. I'll come to you, you come to me, we'll work it out. We already have the weekend in September planned. Right? You have that on your calendar?"
I nod. "And holidays," I say.
"Exactly," he says, tipping my chin up. "And we can have some mind-blowing phone sex in between."
I roll my eyes and can't help but laugh. He smiles, but his eyes don't show it.
We've said goodbye in different ways a thousand times over the past couple weeks. He came to every single one of my performances, bringing a huge bouquet for the last one. He helped me pack up my apartment, drying my tears as we loaded boxes and bags. We held each other at night, stroked each other's skin and convinced ourselves that everything will be okay.
But now, standing in the airport about to go through security, it dawns on me that this is real. I won't be in Chicago anymore, Jackson won't be a train ride away, and I'm about to embark on a brand new life I know nothing about. Alone, all over again.
I've never been more terrified. I want to dig my heels in, refuse what I've been given, but I know that isn't an option.
"Now boarding Flight 832 to New York. Now boarding Flight 832 to New York."
My stomach twists and my throat tightens. I didn't want our final moments to be rushed, but now they are. People start moving faster, more join the security line, and I know I have to go through. I can't miss this.
"I love you," he says, holding my jaw in his hands. "I love you, okay? Call me when you get there. We'll talk tonight. I love you."
Tears stream down my cheeks and I don't do anything to stop them. He swipes at the moisture with his thumbs, but what he erases only gets replaced.
"Okay," I say, voice wobbling. I blink heavy into his eyes and see that his are glassy, too. But his jaw is clenched - he's doing everything he can to keep it together for me. "I love you, too."
I wrap my arms around his waist, tight as vices, and sob against his chest. I know I'm leaving tear-stains, but I can't find it within myself to care. He strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, and gently pulls me off.
"You gotta go, baby," he says, voice soft as ever. He curls my hair behind my ear and gives me one last kiss, a kiss that holds everything we've ever felt for each other, our past, present, and cloudy future. I lick my lips once it's over, hoping to taste him when I leave.
"I love you, Jackson," I say, still sobbing as I grab the handle of my suitcase and start walking towards the security line. "I love you."
"I love you, too, April," he says, and I walk through the line. I go through the bag-check and pause at the door where, when I pass through it, I won't be able to see him anymore.
I take one last look over my shoulder. He's standing where I left him, shoulders hunched by his ears, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on me. I wave and try to smile, but I don't think it comes out right.
He waves back, and I linger for only a moment longer before walking through the door that leads to my uncertain future.
…
"The tub is really big," I say. "We'd both fit."
I'm sitting amongst the suds, only my knees poking out. I've been in my apartment for approximately four hours, unpacked nothing, and cried a lot. I went to the CVS across the street, bought a bottle of bubble bath and a Nerds Rope, then came back home.
Now, I'm on the phone with Jackson, gnawing on the candy and wishing I was back home. Even though, supposedly where I am right now is home.
"Better than the cubicle of a shower you had at your old place," he says. "Guess you'll just have to keep it warm 'til I get there."
I rest my head back against the edge of the tub. "I wish that was tomorrow," I say. "I don't like it here. I miss you, and I miss Chicago. I want to come home."
"I know," he says, his voice very small. "I want you back, too."
My throat clogs. "Oh, Jackson," I say. "You're not supposed to say that. You're supposed to say, 'No, baby! You got this. New York is your home now. In a couple days you won't even remember Chicago.'"
He pauses for a moment. "Nah, I can't say that," he says. I hear a faraway voice say something I can't quite hear, then Jackson snickers. "Mark says he misses hearing your sexy moans." I can tell he pulls the phone away from his mouth when he shouts, "Fuck off, dude!"
I roll my eyes and sink lower beneath the bubbles. "I feel like I might not be able to do this," I say.
"You can," he replies. "And it won't be that long 'til we see each other again."
It isn't that long, but it feels like forever. When I show up at the first rehearsal, I'm a tiny fish in a huge pond. No one knows who I am and in turn, it feels like I don't deserve to be here. It must have been a huge mistake for Jennifer Michaels to pluck me from obscurity and toss me here. It has to be some sort of joke.
But even though I don't have much of a reputation, I hold my own. I memorize my lines fast and I'm off book by the end of the second week. I hole myself up in my apartment on my days off and pore over the script, making sure I know everything there is to know about the story and the character. Not only do I read the play, but I read the book and as many interpretations of it as I can get my hands on.
I live Sense and Sensibility, I practically become Marianne Dashwood herself.
After I get used to my environment, I flourish. I regain my confidence and tell myself that NYC is just another city to get used to, except there's no boy of my dreams in a little deli below me this time.
Nights are hard. Sleeping alone is harder. I got so used to Jackson's big, warm body next to mine that when I find myself cold and lonely in bed at night, it's hard to wind down. Every night, I call him and his voice puts me to sleep.
"Did you have a good day?" he asks, voice low and relaxing.
"Long," I say. "We worked on blocking."
"Show goes up in a couple weeks, doesn't it?" he says.
"Mm-hmm," I say, then stretch my arm out and widen my fingers over the empty space on the mattress. "I really hate distance," I say.
"Not as much as I do," he says.
"How's the relationship with your hand going?" I ask, joking with him. "She called. Said you've been overworking her. Give her a break every now and then, she's tired of beating off for you."
"Shut up," he says. "The batteries probably died in your vibrator the second day you were there."
I gasp playfully. "You weren't supposed to know I had that," I whisper.
"Well, I was the one who packed it," he whispers back. "Hot pink. Interesting color choice, baby."
"It's spicy," I say, then yawn through my laugh.
"You should sleep," he says, and if I close my eyes I can practically feel his fingers threading through my hair and stroking it away from my face - a surefire way to help me drift off.
"Stay on the phone," I say. "I wanna be with you."
That's how all of my nights end. At least, the ones where I don't pass out on the couch with papers surrounding me and a half-eaten cup of yogurt on the coffee table.
When we're reunited, I practically ditch my suitcase as I sprint past the spot where we said goodbye and rocket into Jackson's arms. He catches me with ease, spins me around and smiles into my face, his nose pressed to mine.
"It's you!" I shrill, refusing to let go as I kiss him repeatedly. "I'm never gonna stop kissing you. Ever. Ever again."
He kisses me back with fervor, setting my feet down as my arms stay wrapped around his neck - forcing me to stand on tiptoe.
"You're even more beautiful," he says, between kisses. "I love you. I missed you. You're back. You're here."
"I'm here," I say, holding his face as I beam. "Take me home. Make love to me. This whole weekend, I don't wanna leave your bed."
And we don't.
We spend most of the time naked, wrapped in the sheets, eating takeout and leftovers from said takeout. He catches me up on what he's been doing in school, makes me laugh with stories about Mark, and we both glow with happiness.
I knew I missed him, but I never knew reuniting with my favorite person would be this sweet. It feels like something inside me has clicked back together, a light has turned on with a replaced fuse, a broken seam sewn back together.
It's past midnight, and we're still giggling, soft as whispers, between kisses. His hands ghost over the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, the bumps of my ribs, before gently landing over my breasts.
I've missed his touch, it's like I'm feeling it for the first time all over again. His fingers burn me; I'm sure, in the morning, I'll wake up with his name seared onto my skin.
"I'm so happy," he says, closing his eyes as he opens his mouth over my nipple.
I smile and hug his neck, slipping my leg through his. I press my cheek to the side of his head and arch my back so he has more leeway to my chest, then drag my nails over his shoulder blades to give him goosebumps.
"Don't stop," I say, the smile stuck on my lips.
I'm back in Jackson's arms again, and I can't ask for anything more.
The period is short-lasted, though. Sunday comes all too soon, and from the moment I wake up, I'm full of dread. I lie there on the mattress, face-up with my eyes on the ceiling, my arms around Jackson's heavy head. When I take a deep inhale, it rises as he uses my bare breast as a pillow.
The J necklace is pooled against my neck, I can feel it bunched from the way I'm laying, the metal cool against my warm skin.
I stroke his hair that's gotten long, pulling at the curls to watch them bounce back. I kiss his hairline, hug him closer, then press my face against the top of his head that smells like his boy shampoo.
"Mm," he grunts, tightening his arm around my waist. "You up?"
"I don't wanna go," I whimper.
He wakes up further, shifting and inhaling loudly. He rubs his thumb in circles on my skin and presses a sleepy, absent-minded kiss to my nipple that's already surrounded by hickeys in different stages.
I lost track of how many times we've had sex over the past couple days. We had to make up for some serious lost time, and I'm feeling the effects of it now. I had to get used to his size all over again, but his reclamation of my body was more than welcomed.
"Stay," he murmurs, still half-gone.
I recall back to when we were standing in the airport and I said if he told me to stay, I would. And even now, I want to believe those words. I know for a fact that if he would've followed the script then, I would've obeyed. Without a second thought, I would've gotten back on the Blue Line and gone back the way we came.
But now, things are different. I've scraped together the beginnings of a life out east, and a plea to stay here won't stick.
"I can't," I whisper.
"I know."
We have sex once more - slow, thought-out, intimate. I feel every ridge of him as he's inside me, and he shows me without saying how beautiful I am, how cherished, how loved.
A selfish thought crosses my mind, one that finds it way to my conscious often. I want him to come with me, pick up everything and find a school in New York that he likes. I'm not as naive to think that law is taught the same everywhere, but I can't help wondering how different it could really be. I've considered asking him a handful of times, when we're both desperately pining for the other's presence as we're hundreds of miles apart.
But then, I imagine if the tables were turned and he asked the same of me. I would feel like I was being made to choose - my dream, or his?
I would never force him to do anything like that. We can live our respective dreams while still interlacing into each other's lives, just more sporadically than we're accustomed. This transition is hard, but this lifestyle is one we'll have to get comfortable with. The future is impossible to predict, and I've stopped trying. I've come to expect both nothing and everything at the same time.
If possible, the second goodbye is harder than the first, because we know how much the separation hurts. I can barely look in his eyes, they hold too much pain. When he wipes away my tears, I hold his wrist and kiss his palm, letting him know how much I love him, how much I already miss him.
"As soon as you send me the show schedule, I'll figure out when I can come," he says.
"Okay," I say. "I'll get it soon. I'll send it right when I get it."
He nods, smiles sadly as I sniffle.
"I wanna keep you so bad," he says, tracing his thumb over my eyebrow. "You know you're my world, don't you?"
"And you're my heart," I say, then reach to touch the J necklace. "That's why I have you right here."
"Now boarding Flight 183 to New York, now boarding Flight 183 to New York."
"I really hate that guy," Jackson mutters, then pulls me flush to him by the small of my back. "I love you. Be safe. Call when you get there."
I nod quickly, feeling that same horrible, rushed feeling. "I will," I say, then grip the handle of my bag. "I love you, too. I love you so much!"
He blows me a kiss and waves as I walk away, and I don't miss the chance to steal one last look at him before I turn that corner. His face looks the same as always: painted-on smile, a facade, so I won't see the pain underneath.
I know, because I'm doing the same for him.
…
After rehearsals are done and the show starts, I realize that before this, I've never known the true meaning of the word 'busy.'
At first, I thrived. For the first week, the fast pace was exhilarating and the fact that I had no time to do anything was just part of the job. I told myself I was a real performer, tried and true, and this was what I had to endure.
But now, at the end of the second week, I've lost that vigor. I forget to eat some days, and I'm always tired. I never let my performances suffer, but once I'm off-stage, I retreat back to being a husk of a person.
The makeup artists cluck and comment about the bags under my eyes, about the 5-Hour Energy drinks I'm always drinking, about the fact that I fall asleep sitting up in their chairs. I try to ignore them, tell myself that this is a performer's lifestyle and I just haven't gotten used to it yet.
I haven't properly talked to Jackson since the first show went up. Mostly because I'm busy schmoozing with my castmates or important faces who've come to see the show, not getting back to whatever hotel room I'm in that night until 2 or 3am.
Family and friends aren't my priority anymore. Now, I have to think about my image. How people perceive me, the face I'm showing the world of theatre. I don't have the time or energy to concentrate on anything else.
Food and sleep come last. I don't slow down because I know that if I did, I'd be alone with my thoughts and that's not something I feel safe doing at this point. Once I get over the hump and get a second wind, I'll take a moment for myself. Recenter and reconnect with Jackson, send him the show schedule that I keep meaning to send him.
But that moment hasn't come yet. Right now, I have other people to please who are constantly depending on me.
I've made a friend from the cast whose name is Lexie Grey, and she plays Lucy Steele. We got close during rehearsals, because we were both the fastest learners. She has a photographic memory, so it was even easier for her than it was for me.
We're all out to dinner at a fancy restaurant tonight, and as I'm sitting laughing with everyone at the table, I feel a strange sensation between my legs. I sit up straighter, eyebrows furrowing, wondering if it could be my period. Even though I'm not due for another three weeks, I feel liquid and it's different than it's ever felt before.
I stand as gingerly as I can, and Lexie looks up curiously. "Are you going to the bathroom?" she asks. "I could use a trip, too. Be back, guys."
We disappear into the quiet bathroom that's decorated in golds and whites, and I let out a long breath once I situate the skirt of my dress and pull my underwear down. When I look, though, I see they're completely drenched in blood so dark it's almost black.
I gasp loudly.
"Everything alright in there?" Lexie asks.
I lose my breath, holding it as I see droplets have already formed and dried down my legs without my noticing. I tuck my hand between my thighs and it comes out coated with the same thick blood that's soaked my underwear.
"April?"
"No," I say, quietly at first, then louder. "No, I'm not okay. I'm not. I'm not okay."
I hear footsteps get closer as Lexie stands right outside my stall door. "What? What's wrong?"
I lean forward and unlock the door, and it swings open to reveal the macabre sight that is me on the toilet, covered in blood from the waist down.
"Shit," she says, fumbling for her phone. "We have to get you to a hospital."
The trip there is blurry. I'm not sure if someone gives us a ride or if she calls an Uber, because I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. Lexie is on the phone with someone and keeps asking me questions I know the answers to, but can't seem to vocalize.
Has this happened before? No.
Have I eaten today? Barely.
Drank water? One glass, in the morning.
My head feels light and fuzzy and my vision grows black around the edges. When I'm helped into the emergency room, everything is too bright and I have to squint against the harsh light.
I get admitted, and I'm still not sure what's going on. I answer the nurses and doctors as best I can, and get put on an IV drip because I'm dehydrated. Once it gets into my system, I can think a bit clearer, put thoughts together… then the fear settles in.
I tense when a female doctor rolls to the side of my bed on a low-sitting stool. She's holding a clipboard and wearing a somber expression, and I'm sure I must be dying.
"Miss Kepner," she says. "I'm so sorry to inform you that you've had a miscarriage. I'm sorry, hun, but you lost your baby."
I'm gutted, absolutely floored. This can't be right. She must have someone else's file.
"No," I say, shaking my head.
"It was nothing you did," she continues, not understanding my reaction. "Sometimes, this can happen in the early stages. It can happen due to stress, strenuous activity, or pure happenstance. It's not your fault, and nothing is keeping you from trying again. We're just going to ask you to hang here for a couple hours while we get these fluids in you, and have someone come in and talk to you about nutrition."
My eyes widen and I try to wet my lips, but the saliva only makes them sting.
"I'm not pregnant," I say, my voice weaker than I intended.
"No," she says. "Not anymore, and I'm very sorry. There's nothing you need to do, though. The body will expel what it needs to on its own, since the development was so early-on. It'll be like a very heavy period, probably paired with some cramping."
"No," I say, sterner this time. "I was never pregnant. That's… I wasn't pregnant. I couldn't have had a miscarriage, because I wasn't pregnant. I would've known, I-I … there must have been a mistake."
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you were. I wasn't aware you didn't know… I… my apologies for that. But yes, you were pregnant, and now you're not. But like I said-"
"This can't be happening!" I shriek, and move erratically only to have a powerful cramp ripple through my middle and send me flying back to the bed.
I pull my knees to my chest, curl into a ball, and start sobbing.
"Is there anyone I can call?" the doctor asks.
Lexie is in the waiting room, but I don't want her to know. I'm not sure what excuse I'll come up with for this, but she can't know.
Not my mom. She's the last person I want to talk to right now. Knowing her, she'd jump on a plane and be at my side within hours. I don't want that.
And not Jackson. No, not Jackson, either. As far as he's concerned, this never happened. I was never pregnant. All of those times we had sex without a condom, without me being on birth control, didn't amount to anything.
Not anything but the stone of guilt, heavy as the one etched with 'faith' I gave him, sitting in my gut. Replacing the bundle of cells that was our growing fetus, the one I wrecked and ruined and killed.
I can never show my face to him again. Never hear his voice, knowing I murdered something so perfect.
"No," I say, voice cracked and empty. "There's no one."
