Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94639 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94639 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“No,” Richie agrees, “but maybe over time we could be. I think we owe it to our baby to at least try. The last thing either of us wants is to be a statistic. Two teen parents shuffling our baby back and forth between houses. Doesn’t our baby deserve better than that?”
I consider his words, and while my heart doesn’t necessarily want to agree with what he’s saying, I know deep down he’s right. His family has the means to help us. It doesn’t matter that I’m not in love with him, or that he’s not the person I want to spend my life with. I see how much my mom is struggling on her own, and I’m not going to put more on her shoulders. It’s not fair to her or to the baby. It’s no longer just me I have to think about, but our baby. And letting them help us is what’s best.
“Okay, once I graduate, I’ll move in with you and we’ll get married.”
Richie smiles and takes my hand, squeezing it softly. “Everything will be okay, Harper.”
I smile back and pray he’s right. Because right now, it feels like nothing will ever be okay.
One decision.
One choice.
That’s all it takes for your life to change.
Eleven
Harper
Twelve and a Half Years Later
“Ella, come on, sweetheart. Put your flip-flops on. We need to get your brother from camp.” I drop my nine-year-old daughter’s pink flip-flops on the floor and she quickly steps into them.
“Did you see the back handspring I did on the balance beam?” she asks, taking the open bottle of water from me and swallowing several gulps before coming up for air.
“I did. It was perfect.” Checking the time on my phone, I see I only have ten minutes to get across town and over to the park where Hunter is finishing up his first day of baseball camp. I don’t know what I was thinking putting both kids into camp at the same time. Oh, I know. I thought when Richard told me he would make sure he’s available to help with pick-up, he really meant it. Stupid me for believing him.
Ella climbs into the back seat of my Audi SUV and I hightail it out of the gymnastics parking lot to hopefully get to Hunter on time. But just to be on the safe side…
“Siri, call Bridget,” I speak into my Bluetooth. Bridget Hogue is one of my best friends. We met a couple years ago when her son, Brendan, was in the same class as Hunter. They bonded over their love of baseball, and Bridget and I bonded over our love of wine.
“Hey, Harp,” she says, answering on the third ring.
“I’m running a few minutes late. Can you grab Hunter for me and I’ll meet you in the parking lot?” Our boys have been on the same baseball team for the last two years, and they’re attending the same baseball camp this summer. The camp is four weeks long, and of course it falls during the same time as Ella’s gymnastics camp. It wouldn’t be a big deal except they’re a good twenty minutes across town from each other and end at the same time.
When I told Richard, he promised to help out so they could both attend their camps. First day and he’s already flaked. After all this time, I should already know how he works, but I keep hoping one damn time he’ll come through. Money, he’s good at dishing out. It’s his time that he’s stingy with. And while I couldn’t give a shit about him giving me any of his time, I care that he fought for shared fifty-fifty custody, got it, and is down to only seeing his kids four days a month. Last time I checked, four days out of thirty doesn’t equal fifty percent. But what do I know?
“Why don’t I just meet you at my house?” Bridget suggests. “The boys can hang out, I’ll have Simon pick up dinner, and we can have a glass of wine. I haven’t seen you in like a week.”
“Ella, want to go over to Bridget’s?” I ask my daughter, who’s sitting in the back seat with wireless headphones over her ears while she watches a movie on the overhead television. When she catches my eye in the rearview mirror, she takes them off.
“What, Mom?” she asks. “Did you say something?”
“Bridget’s?” I ask again.
“Yes!” She squeals. “Will Eleanor and Elizabeth be there?” Eleanor and Elizabeth are Bridget and Simon’s two-year-old twin daughters, who Ella loves to dress up and treat like they’re baby dolls.
“Yes, Ella, they will be,” Bridget answers over Bluetooth.
“Yay!”
“Well, there’s your answer,” I say with a laugh. “We’ll see you soon.”
I disconnect the call and literally two seconds later, my phone rings. “Red wine, not white,” I say into the Bluetooth, thinking it’s Bridget.