Page 83 of Made for You
My voice is quiet. Still calm, as calm as I can make it. “No. I...wasn’t thinking. It was my first time.”
No response. I wait.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say.
Josh heaves out a long breath. “My mom finally called.”
“Josh! That’s great!”
But he doesn’t lower his face. In fact, he’s shaking his head ever so slightly, with a strange smile like he’s in the grip of some cruel irony.
“Or...wait,” I say. “Is she okay?”
His eyes meet mine over the endless expanse of the dressing room, the endless expanse of our wildly differing emotions. My heart thuds and thuds, like it’s trying to reach Josh, like it’s knocking against bone hoping it’s a door that someone will open, but it’s just bone.
Just six weeks ago, Josh’s eyes were full of hope, love, excitement, desire. Now? They’ve gone opaque, like all of that’s been stuffed behind this layer of disappointment and pain. I can’t even tell if it’s just about his mom, or if there’s more he’s not telling me.
“She has stage four breast cancer.” His voice is flat.
“Oh, Josh.” This explains the tension when we met in the wings. This explains why the idea of a baby isn’t immediately exciting. He can’t release himself to the joy of new life when death is staring him in the face. And not just any death—his only parent. Or rather, the only one that matters.
Everything in me wants to leap up, cross the room, and enfold Josh in the strongest hug I can give. But I don’t move.
“What can I do?” I whisper.
“Well, obviously, we have to fucking take care of her,” he says, like he’s pissed I would even have to ask.
I nod slowly. As awful as this night has been, I force myself to get past the sting of his reaction to my pregnancy announcement, and past the short-term blow of having to reorient our lives before we’ve found our footing. The most important thing is for Josh and me to do right by his mom in her time of need, and restore that relationship as best we can.
I’m about to tell Josh that I’m ready to do whatever is needed when a surge of nausea twists me. Acid explodes up my throat. I put a hand on my gut as a feeling of profound weakness tears through me, ripping all my determination to be strong, like my willpower is made of paper.
“Sorry,” I say as I lean over the trash can by my dressing table and puke. “Morning sickness.”
NOW
“Christi,” I say, weak with relief that she answered the phone.
I’m on Bob’s cell phone, and I was worried she wouldn’t answer a number she doesn’t recognize. I copied down my most important contacts, then destroyed my phone with one of Bob’s hammers, in case they can track me even while it’s off. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but better paranoid than sorry.
Though the twins frequently comment on my Insta, I haven’t talked to Christi or Chrystel since filming the segment for their show, but they gave me their numbers that night, and I’ve always remembered their kind words. If things get tough, call us. And I can’t imagine things getting tougher than my husband’s murder and a sheriff who’s ready to lock me up and throw away the key.
Bob is downstairs making sandwiches. I’m still in the room with the boxes, sitting in the folding chair by the window, trying to ignore the clamoring pain in my ankle.
“Julia!” cries Christi with that same vivacious energy that drew me to her so powerfully, like she’s turbocharged. “We’ve been so worried about everything going on with you! How are you? What’s the update, girl?”
“Things have been...crazy.”
“We know you didn’t do it,” says Christi. “We’ve been very vocal with the press. It’s ridiculous! Like, we can’t even defend ourselves, and now you’re being questioned for murder? Look, I have an incredible lawyer, his name is Tom—”
“I need your help,” I break in. “If your offer from last year still stands.”
“Of course! Anything for you!”
“Does anything include...a car?”
In Bob’s barn, everything felt helpless. But now that I’ve calmed down, I’ve regrouped. Yes, I’m at more of a disadvantage than ever, but it’s not over yet. First, I have to get away from Bob’s. Cops are crawling all over my property; I need some distance. Second, I can’t use my own car, in case there are alerts on the plates.
“Uh...sure?” she says.