What Good Girls Do

Chapter Four

I thought I'd feel better, clearer, once the decision was made, but I didn't. I felt worse. Denial had kept the worst of my fears away. Kept my sadness buried down low enough for me to ignore. Now, everything was crashing to the surface, and it had knocked me harder, more thoroughly than I ever expected.

A week had passed. Days and hours drifted into the next. I'm a ghost, wandering around the house alone, bouncing from room to room, not sure what to do with myself. Fears of the future, of what caring for a baby meant, of what my life would be now. Its shape forever altered from the neat line I'd been working towards. Maybe it was too early, but I swear I could see the subtle swell of my belly.

I'm standing in the kitchen absently biting on an apple, staring at the wall. My fears whirling around my head on a never-ending cycle. I'm trying to study. Trying to find solace in the familiar rhythm of exam prep, but I keep losing focus, my attention drifting. I wasn't sure if it was all a waste of time, but I couldn't let go of the comfort of it.

A tap coming from the backdoor makes me flinch, dragging me from my thoughts. I twist sharply, seeing the hazy outline of a tall frame through a frosted glass. I walk over slowly until the shape become familiar. Then I groan and roll my eyes. I open the door and see Kitty's grandson standing there. Once again, he looks crumpled, like he's perpetually just dragged himself from bed. His T-shirt creased, his jeans dirty, blonde hair messily tucked behind his ears. He smiles lazily.

"You," I say. I try to ignore the unwelcome dip in my belly, or the annoying fact that I mentally check my outfit for its cuteness.

"Yeah, me." He chuckles, nonplussed by my sour words, then his face turns serious. "I came to apologise for the other night."

Exhaling, I turn and walk into the front room. He follows, scuffing his shoes on the mat. I sink back onto the settee, surrounded by my textbooks, and highlighters. He wanders into the room, glancing around curiously.

"If I'd known you were pregnant..." He runs his hands through his hair, and I have to force myself to look away. "I would have driven you, but I'm under curfew and..." I glance up, see a mixture of embarrassment and anger burning across his honeyed skin. I then notice the strange bulge by his ankle, and his words sink in.

"Well, if I knew you were a criminal, I wouldn't have asked."

His eyes widen in surprise, and I ready myself for the response. But he chuckles and shakes his head.

"I'm Connor."

I say nothing, though I'm not sure why. His gaze feels too intense. My cheeks are blazing. I stare hard down at my textbooks, the words blurring into grey.

"You always this friendly in the morning?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Should I be offering you tea? A cooked breakfast? Are you always such a misogynist in the morning?" He's chuckling now. I look up and glare. I hate being mocked, but that's not really the expression on his face. More surprise.