trigger warning: mentions of cutting and miscarriage. please read at your own risk.

also: this story will make you cry. apologies for that! apparently i got too caught up in the sad stuff, oops?

apologies for not writing in a while. life has been rough; i won't bore you with the details.

thanks to metacognitive for writing the story "a long wish to be elsewhere." it has inspired this story, and the event is the same (Sandy getting pregnant), but hopefully the outcome isn't too similar. i apologize it if is, and please send me a message if you feel this way. i will take this story down immediately!

enjoy, and as always, review if you wish. they help me in times like this where i have no desire to write, so know that they mean something.

my skin is torn and my body is tired

The Curtis house coming into view immediately sends fear through my body.

I turn my head to find Soda smirking, trying his best to contain a laugh. I slap his wrist and yell, "Hey! You said this was a date!"

"I can't go over the tracks lookin' like this," he says, and he takes his hand off of the steering wheel to gesture to himself. A smile peaks at the corners of my mouth as my eyes travel down his body, and I laugh inwardly at the sight of Soda putting on nicer clothes than a t-shirt, some beat up jeans he got from Darry, and shoes with holes so far down, you'd wonder why he wore shoes at all.

I suddenly feel self-conscious, aware that Mrs. Curtis is a very modest woman. She was probably wearing a dress down to the floor, some weird-ass pin holding her hair, and a shawl tucked over her shoulders so no skin peeked through. Sometimes, I wondered if Soda was just making this shit up. "Do you think this looks..."

He gives me a side glance as he stops the car. "Looks?"

I frown and look down to my dress. It's tight, but not too tight, hugging my body in all the right places. I suddenly feel out of place, and I know he senses that. "Looks too informal? Too slutty? Too 'Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, I'm your son's whore?'"

That lopsided grin appears again as he barks out a laugh. I've always loved his laugh. It's sweet, not at all forced, a delicate sound that practically makes my world spin. He climbs out of the car, side-stepping the cracked and tire-worn paths in the driveway, and opens the door for me, taking my hand like I'm some sort of queen. My dress rides farther up my thighs as I step out of the car, and I'm quicker than Soda to pull it back down to just above my knees.

His hands come up to touch my face and I can't help but kiss the palm of his right hand. "You're doing it again," he murmurs, his eyes scanning my face.

"Doing what?"

He doesn't reply, only leans in and kisses me. My face is still warm where his hands touched skin, but the moment I step inside the house, it's like all the blood in my body drains into the floor.

Soda wasn't lying when he said Mr. Curtis and Darry were like twins. The only difference seems to be that their daddy has a five-o'clock shadow, and his eyes are tired. Mrs. Curtis was as modern as I predicted, but she's wearing a pretty gray dress, like she's going out to the fancy dinner that Soda and I are supposed to be at right now.

"Ma, Dad," Soda couldn't keep the glee out of his voice. "This is Sandy." Immediately, Mrs. Curtis comes forward and hugs me, petting my hair like I was her long lost daughter, while Mr. Curtis stands there, his gaze unreadable. For a split second I'm afraid he's going to berate Soda, say that I'm dirty, a lost cause. In a way, I've prepared myself for the worst in situations like this, and even though Soda's been the only man I've ever been with, it's still something I like to plan to fuck up.

Mr. Curtis doesn't get a word in by the time Darry and Ponyboy somehow become aware of my presence. Darry gives Soda a high-five and Pony beams at me. "C'mon, Dad," Darry and Pony say together, slowly creeping up on their father but well aware he can see them, "Lighten up, old man."

His demeanor finally cracks, and I'm welcomed home with open arms, but I can also tell I'm not wanted.

"Lettuce is so boring."

"This fuckin' thing is boring," Soda fiddles with his napkin, unsure if he should have it draped over his waist, tucked into his shirt, or on the table. "And a pain in the ass."

I allow him to keep struggling while taking in his attire. A nice blazer that's way too big for him (thanks Mr. Curtis), a dress shirt that has a stretched out collar (thanks Darry and your huge-ass neck), and dress pants that hug his ass in a really great way. I smile, laughing softly, which draws his attention. He's finally settled on a placement for the napkin - his lap, but I know it will move within due time - and is now looking at me with a confused glimmer in his eye.

I reach out and pretend to get something off of his cheek. "You're cute when you're dressed up."

His face grows red under my touch, like I've sucked all of the blood in his body to the spot where my hand rests. "S-Stop it," he says, flustered, "This is never gonna happen again." But the warmth, the affection, the admiration in his eyes betray his words.

But that affection freezes over, and it's replaced with the same look he gave me before we walked into his house. When he asked if I was doing it again. And I know what he means by "it," but Jesus, do I want him to find out? Ninety-seven percent of me says no, it's too risky. I'm too broken, too delicate, too much of a poor man's one night stand.

"San," he says my name like it's the last word he'll ever let past his lips. "Are you doing it again?"

"No." The deadpan I give doesn't stick to him. His eyes look past me, and it's like his gaze can see through this goddamn table, where my thighs are crisscrossed with scars. It's like his gaze can see through me, take in the twisted parts of me, and in his typical Soda Curtis fashion, he tries to hold both of us together at the same time.

"You know you can talk to me, right?"

My face grows red, but I'm not sure if it's from rage or embarrassment. "I know. We've been over this a thousand times, Soda."

He nods, his gaze still trained on mine. "I just wanna make sure that you know. I know my family ain't perfect, with my dad an' all, but we can take you in if you need -"

"I'm fine." The words come out harsher than I intend them to, and my stomach twists as he recoils, hurt clouding the concern that was there. I reach out and take his hands in mine, entwining our fingers, and kiss the palm of his right hand again. It's something that my dad used to do to me when he couldn't find the words to say "I love you."

Thankfully, I know how to say it... in more ways than one.

Soda exhales at my touch, and I can tell the subject has faded into the thousand and one questions inside that pretty brain of his.

I love him with everything I am.

Everyone knows it. His brothers, his gang, my friends. Sylvia constantly throws googly eyes at Soda, but we both know that it's a joke, so I can't help but smile. "I wouldn't dare take that boy away from you, San," Sylvia tells me as we walk to my locker one day. "Even if he is hotter than a chili pepper -"

She stops midsentence as we see Soda leaning against the locker next to mine. A high school drop out, Soda wasn't technically permitted here anymore. Perhaps the office let him through in order to get to Pony, or maybe Soda wooed them into letting him pass. Something tells me it's the second one.

Soda's eyes light up the moment he sees me, and Sylvia keeps blabbering about some stupid movie she and Evie went to see.

"So, like, Steve and Evie weren't even watching the movie." Sylvia rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm pretty sure Evie was doin' somethin' else, because Steve kept making these noises like he had to take a shit."

I nod along to her story but let Soda kiss me deeply, passionately, before opening my locker to get my textbooks. I'm aware that he's watching me carefully, but his eyes flicker between me and Sylvia, who is now headfirst into her rant about how everyone but her is getting laid.

"I just don't understand," she states, eyeing Soda and I, where his hand lays low at the small of my back. "Why the fuck can't I get some action? I'm 'boutta be the twenty-year-old virgin."

Soda scoffs and mutters "fuck" under his breath as the bell rings, signaling us to get back to class. "Twenty? That's not too far off."

Sylvia's eyes about pop out of her head. She gives him the finger as we walk away, the love of my life slowly fading amongst students that he once called friends.

He only loves me for my body.

They say I've got the best ass in Tulsa. What they don't realize is that I'm a real person; my curves are just an added bonus.

When he fucks me, I think of my body as a canvas and him as the painter. I think of the way the way he loves me, the way I love him. I think of the way I look into his eyes after it's over, and Jesus Christ do I just want to do it all over again.

I've always had irregular cycles. I've probably been on every birth control pill under the sun, and when I was on 'em, my period disappeared entirely. When Soda and I started having sex, I knew the pill was the best route to go, and I knew my cycle would cease to exist again.

So when I don't get my period the following month, I think nothing of it. This is normal. I'm used to it.

But then the abdominal pain starts; then the nausea; then the throwing up at the smell of just about anything. Even the smell of shampoo on my mother's hair makes me audibly gag.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" my mother asks one day as I almost dry heave in the sink.

I wipe the spit that's dribbled down my chin with a napkin. "Yeah, ma, I'm fine."

She stares at me quizzically, but she doesn't say another word. She knows better not to push me. "I'll grab you something to help with the nausea" is all she says before she's turning to leave for the bathroom.

Though she asks a lot of questions, it doesn't matter whether I answer. But for this one, for this moment, I feel the need to tell her.

"I'm three weeks late, Ma."

Like she's on wheels, my mother turns right back around and blurts, "This can't be."

I nod slowly, tears burning my eyes. "I think so, Ma. I think it's a baby..."

"Soda's baby," we bring the realization into the air, and it dawns on her that her baby girl got pregnant from a boy on the East side of the tracks.

"You gonna tell him?"

I nod, and she whisks away to grab the nausea pills. A question burns its way into my brain, scorching any happy thoughts about a child growing inside of me:

Are you ready for this?

I'm starting to show.

The statement seems to glow above my head as I look in the mirror, wearing the same dress that I wore to this same fancy dinner a few months ago. I don't know why Soda takes me to this place. I've told him before that I can happily go to a diner for some burgers and fries, and he insists anyway.

"Gotta treat my girl right," he always says, and now, I cringe inwardly.

How will you manage when we've got an extra mouth to feed?

I quickly change into a larger dress as I hear my mother give away my location. Soda comes around the corner, wearing a suit that actually fits him, and I can't help but blush as he whistles.

"There's my girl," he says, standing behind me and looking at my body. "You ready to go?"

I nod solemnly, and I see a question form in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything further.

The entire night, I've forced myself to eat, drink, and make small talk. I know Soda is taken aback, because I'm usually a chatter box, a radio he can't mute.

We're standing outside the restaurant, waiting for a cab. He puts his arms around my waist and hugs me from behind, and I grimace, hoping he isn't touching my stomach, hoping he can't notice the tears that blur the edge of my vision. "Tonight was wonderful, San."

"You said that last time."

I can feel him smile. "You make every night wonderful." My heart warms at this, but my stomach twists, and I know that I need to get it over with.

He pulls away and I turn toward him, and he immediately leans forward and takes my face in his hands. His thumbs run over my cheeks, over and over again, and more tears threaten to spill my secret.

"Soda," the word comes short of a whisper. "I gotta tell you somethin'."

"I know -"

fuck fuck fuck fuck.

And he's suddenly looking at me expectantly, and I swallow hard. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said I've been wanting to ask you what's wrong, but I know you don't like to talk about stuff with me an' all. So I just thought it was better that I say nothin'. Are you okay?"

Every vocal chord in my throat seems to close and I cough harshly. Soda's already in concern mode, telling me he's going to get me some water. I grab onto his wrist, holding onto him like he's my lifeline.

"I'm pregnant." The words flood out of my mouth, and his concern - his loyalty - dulls to confusion.

"What?"

The tears are running down my face. I know he's going to leave. He's going to find someone better. See why I always plan for the worst? It's so I don't get hurt like I am right now.

"Is it mine?"

"Of course it is." My voice cracks, and Soda turns around as if he can't look at me anymore.

But then he turns around, crying, and places his hands against my face again. "It's okay, San. We're gonna figure this out."

As he speaks, his thumbs run over my cheeks, and somehow, I know I'm forgiven.

I'm 18 weeks along when I have specks of blood in my underwear. I wad up some toilet paper, make a temporary pad, and go about my day.

I'm 21 weeks when they show up again. I call my doctor once, who tells me to keep an eye on the spotting and hangs up.

I'm 23 weeks when I am rushed to the hospital with severe bleeding. Sylvia and Evie found me in a bathroom stall, hunched over my underwear, blood trailing down my scarred thighs. I told them that I was fine, that I didn't need anything other than more toilet paper, and they immediately scooped me up and shoved me into Sylvia's car.

Unfortunately for me, Sylvia called Soda on the way. Unfortunately for me, Soda pulled Ponyboy out of school to come with him to the hospital.

Fortunately for me, I don't think he's going to get here on time. I don't want him to see how much pain I'm in, how much blood stains the girls' bathroom floor.

But then his pretty face bursts into the room as the doctor is relaying information, and I immediately start to sob. He pets my disgusting, sweat-ridden hair as the doctor finishes the news. I don't even hear him talk much, but three words stick out of all the rest:

"We're losing him."

"It's a boy?" Soda and I breathe together, and the doctor nods. His smile is happy, but his eyes are depressed as ever.

"I hate to say this," the doctor says, and I can tell by his voice he's as regretful as I am. "but it's my job. He is too small for us to deliver safely, so we have to do an emergency c-section. I'm not positive he will live once he's out of the womb."

"Bullshit," Soda says, and Ponyboy mutters for him to stop. "My kid ain't gonna die."

"It's fairly certain that -"

"I don't care. He won't die on me. Not on her."

Soda stares at me with pain and love in his eyes. I sob even harder and he rubs the tears away with his thumb, his anger forgotten. "I love you. It's gonna be okay. We're gonna be a family and it'll all be fine."

The doctor's next question forever stays with me. "Would you like to hold him as he dies?"

He speaks to the doctor again, but his gaze doesn't leave mine. Tears fall down his face, and his voice breaks as he says, "None of that talk. Get my son and keep him alive."

I don't even remember them cutting me open. I only remember his small face, his small body being taken away the minute he arrives into the world. I don't think he cried. I remember being able to see his organs through his skin as he's wheeled away with a thousand nurses running after. I don't think he saw me or his father.

I'm not ready. Soda's asleep and I hate to wake him. But the minute I move, his eyes open, and he sleepily nuzzles the top of my head. A dark presence comes into the room, and he stops when he realizes the doctor is there.

"We can't save him." The doctor's voice is heavy, thick with emotion. I lean against Soda, and Soda takes my hand in his, entwining our fingers for only a moment. The doctor moves closer and places a blanket in my hands, murmuring, "Take all the time you need" before shutting the door quietly behind him.

Tears fall on my head from above, and I know Soda's bawling. My eyes start to water as I look at him, at our son, and then back at him again.

My world is falling to pieces. It's burning right in front of me. This little boy, this baby I'll never get to watch play football with his daddy, argue with his uncles, fight alongside his friends in a rumble. I'll never get to watch him grow up, get a girlfriend, maybe marry that girl, have kids of his own. This little boy I love so much. I would give anything for him to be here, to live, to have one more day with his mommy and daddy. I would give the stars, the moon, the sun for him.

This little boy has my heart, but he will never have his own.

Soda's voice cracks heavily as he says, "There's our boy."

For thirty-nine minutes, I have a child. I have a son.

Soda turns my face towards his and kisses me softly, gently, like I'll break if he does it too forcefully. He presses his forehead against mine as I say, "Do we have to give him back to them?"

His eyes are red from the tears. His hair is a mess from being asleep. His voice is kind as he murmurs, "We have to, San. We'll get through this, baby. I promise. I'm here."

We hold our baby, our little boy, until the sun sets beyond the horizon. And I know somewhere, somehow, he's dancing in the starlight with a heart that yearns for us to come home to him.

fun fact: i was born at 23 weeks! this same situation could have happened to my parents.

thanks for reading!