Miles From Kara (3 page)

That night, my crowd made our way down a floor to Sarah's apartment. The door stood slightly ajar and music blared out from the crack, beckoning us inside.

Sarah rushed up to us, tripping a bit as she walked. “Hey!” she squealed.

“Hey!” I said back over the music. “You look like you're having fun!”

She laughed. “Alyssa got into a study abroad program, so we started a little early.” Alyssa was Sarah's roommate and a pharmacy major. She spent so much time studying that she made Olivia, the queen of studying, look like a slacker.

Alyssa joined us then, her words slurring. “I'm going to Italy. It-aly. There's bread there.”

I grinned. “There is. Maybe you should have some now.”

But she was already gone, disappearing back through their apartment to join the group dancing to some Justin Timberlake song. “I'll get us some drinks,” Ethan whispered into my ear, and I nodded for him to go ahead, expecting Preston and Colt to go with him, but neither moved, their eyes locked on something I hadn't yet seen. I followed their gaze to find Ethan hugging some other girl I didn't recognize. He pulled away from her and they laughed, clearly excited to see one another. I turned away and Olivia leaned into me.

“Are you okay?”

I laughed. “Yeah. Why wouldn't I be? They're obviously friends. No biggie.”

Preston's face scrunched up. “Uh, that's not the Kara I know at all. Do you remember what you were like last semester?”

I stared at him blankly. “What?”

Olivia eyed me, sensing that I didn't want to talk about this, and then grabbed Preston's arms. “Let's go get our drinks. You okay, Kar?”

“I'm perfect. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snapped. Olivia's eyes widened and I instantly felt like shit. “Look, I'm sorry. I'm just . . . sorry.”

Her expression softened. “Just get a drink. You'll feel better after you've cut the edge a little.”

I nodded, but inside I felt even worse. When did I start having an edge?

They slipped through the crowd, and I leaned against the bar, trying to remember when I stopped being me. Fun. Carefree. Or was that never really me at all?

“They're just concerned, mate.”

I spun around to see Colt beside me, his head tilted down, causing his hair to shadow his eyes. My hand twitched with the desire to push it out of the way so I could see what he was thinking.

“I know. There's just nothing to be concerned over.”

Colt shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.”

I glanced up.

“Why don't you care that he's doing that?”

I wanted to scream,
Because the only guy on my mind these days is you
, but I couldn't say that. I couldn't even think that. God, when had my life become so messed up?

“It's complicated,” I said.

“Not really. Watch.” And then he strutted away from me and stepped up to Ethan, whispering in his ear. Ethan glanced back my way, then to the girl. He said something to her and then came over to me.

“Sorry, babe, that was just a friend.”

“Yet you didn't think to introduce me, your
girl
friend?” I asked angrily. I was sick of talking about this all the time. Why couldn't Ethan just be the Ethan he was from before, so I could go back to being my normal self and our friends would stop asking questions I didn't want to answer?

Ethan's gaze shot over to Colt as though asking for help, but Colt's expression was as stoic as ever. “I'm getting a beer.” Then he stormed off. I stared after him, wondering why he cared so much. Why he cared at all.

“I'm sorry,” Ethan said, pulling me closer. “We've just been together so long I assume anyone I know, you know, but that isn't always the case now, is it?”

“No, it isn't,” I said. And then an awkward silence took over, neither of us sure what to say next. The semester was coming to a close, and somehow it felt like our relationship was also ticking toward an expiration date.

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, kissing my temple, but my body didn't warm to him like it used to. Like it should. I closed my eyes and tried to relax into him, faking contentment.

After all, I was a master of faking it through every aspect of my life.

***

And speaking of faking . . .

I glanced at my alarm clock beside my bed. Three a.m. I'd been lying there for an hour. Ethan was long asleep, his naked body clinging to mine. It'd taken me years of dating him for us to actually have sex. Becoming pregnant at sixteen instilled the fear of God in me, but eventually I went on birth control and Ethan always wore a condom, so I sort of felt like I'd covered all my bases. The fear was still there, which was why even though we'd been together for years and had sex countless times, I had yet to have an orgasm. I just couldn't let go like I should, couldn't relax, couldn't think about anything but the sex ending and my body becoming safe again. And then I'd worry for days after. God forbid my period show a day late. I would lose all ability to cope. Screwing up and getting pregnant once? My parents could forgive me, even if they refused to look me in the eye. But if it happened again I would be disowned for good.

I gently lifted Ethan's arm and shrugged out from under it, desperate to be alone. I eyed the clock again and slipped on my pajamas, then tiptoed out to the kitchen, hoping a bottle of water would settle me back down.

I closed my bedroom door and started for the kitchen, only to find the refrigerator already open, its light shining out in the darkness. “Oh, sorry,” Colt whispered from just inside the door. I edged around the counter and stopped. Oh. My. God. My eyes roamed over him like he was a tall glass of iced water on a hot summer day. He was naked, except for a pair of low hanging boxers and an easiness that made my toes curl with want.

“Hey, I was just . . .” I motioned to the fridge.

“Can't sleep?” He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. I tried not to stare at his tattoos, at their intricacy. How the tattoo that swirled around the top of his left arm curved over his shoulder, spilling onto his pectoral muscle. And what a pectoral muscle. Sweet Jesus . . .

I glanced up to find him watching me. “Do you have any ink?” he asked.

“Uh, no. No I don't,” I said with a laugh.

“What's funny?”

I eyed his arms. “Nothing. I just . . . I've always considered them, you know, tacky.” I cringed at my words. I shouldn't have admitted to that.

I waited for him to get offended or angry, but instead he burst out laughing. “You're different, ya know? Whatever you think just comes right out. I bet you can't control it, can you?”

I thought about the question. “I've never really wanted to. My parents have always acted very different from how they truly felt. It's so fake. I just try to be honest, when I can.” I looked away. There was plenty I was faking, too. I shouldn't judge. I wasn't so different from my parents. The thought made my chest hurt. I didn't want to be like them.

“Why do you like tattoos so much?” I asked, moving the subject away from me.

His gaze dropped to the tattoo on his right arm. It was the simplest of all, only a dove with the word SOAR above it. “I got my first when my mum died two years ago. It made me feel better at first, but then the bad returned, so I got another and another. It took me awhile to realize they weren't going to bring her back.”

I didn't know when I had moved, but suddenly I stood mere feet away from him. An arm's length. His gaze penetrated through me. “I'm sorry,” I whispered, the moment too raw to speak any louder.

He shrugged. “She'll be right.”

“Is that why you moved here? To live with your dad?”

His expression darkened and I could tell I'd crossed a line I didn't know was there.

“I'm sorry,” I repeated. “It's none of my business. I just . . . sorry.”

“No worries. My dad's just a wanker.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Colt took a step in my direction. “Can I ask you a question, Kara?”

My eyes drifted up to his. He was so close now, close enough that I could smell his woodsy scent. Most guys smelled like cologne or soap, but Colt was all earthy. All male. It was too much. “Maybe,” I said, unwilling to offer more.

“Why do you stay with him?”

Of all the questions I expected to hear out of his mouth, that wasn't one of them. It was the one question I couldn't answer, even to myself. I drew an uncomfortable breath and shook my head, my gaze finding the floor. “What do you mean?”

Another step. “You know what I mean.”

“Why do you care?”

He paused, his arms still at his sides, his heart beating noticeably in his chest. “I don't know.” Our eyes met, and in his gaze I saw the same war that brewed in my heart. This wasn't right, yet I couldn't keep myself away. The moment drew on, an electric charge building all around us. Every nerve in my body ached to close the distance between us, to see if his skin felt as warm as it looked. I wanted to trace the lines of his tattoos. I wanted to hear and feel his breath on my face. I swallowed hard, my resolve to be the good girl my mom raised me to be faltering. And then Olivia's door opened and we jumped away from one another, me rushing for the fridge, him ducking back into the common room. Olivia stared between us, her eyes wide, but she didn't say a word. She knew me too well to ask. But if she had, what would I say?

I had no idea what I was doing. I only knew that it was wrong. So, so wrong.

“Oh, good, Kara, you're here,” Tori said, rushing up to me at Helping Hands. It was a Friday, and my lightest class day—only one real class and a lab—so I agreed to stop by when Tori called to say they were slammed. As I looked around the overrun waiting room, I'd say that was an understatement. “I know you just started a few weeks ago,” she continued, “but do you think you could talk with some of the college kids who are pretending to be depressed?” She nodded behind me to a group of college students with dramatic expressions, all moping around like the world was about to close in on them. “Most are girls who didn't get into the sorority of their choice, so it should be easy.”

I ran through my training with Tori from a week before, the background check, the application to become a student counselor. Only two practicum students were legally allowed at the center, and we had to prove that we were working toward becoming certified in the field. All other counselors at the center were degreed and certified. Per Tori, I could talk to college students and teens needing an ear to vent, but should the conversation move to anything serious—depression, suicide, etc.—I had to call in a trained counselor.

“Sure,” I said, though I felt nervous. I had only shadowed two counseling sessions, and though I remembered what to say, I didn't feel like I knew at all how to help anyone. I mean, what if the person melted down? What if she asked my opinion on something I knew nothing about? Still, I couldn't say no to Tori after she'd been kind enough to let me volunteer there. “Where do you want me?”

She spun me around and pushed me toward the door to the back rooms. “Room Three. Hurry. I might explode if they break down into tears.” I grinned, surprised to hear Tori making fun of them, but I supposed when you saw people on the verge of true mental breakdown, a little college drama did seem trivial in comparison.

I opened the door to the third room to find a small desk with a chair behind it, a box of tissues, a notepad, and a pencil on the desk itself. In front of it sat two chairs with a small table between them, another box of tissues in the center. Hm, I guess there was going to be a lot of crying going on in here.

I set my purse on the desk and reached for my phone to check the time, only to find a new text from Colt.
Why doesn't anyone here say
arvo
? I mean, don't they realize how looong afternoon sounds?

I laughed.
Because
arvo
isn't a word, crazy. We use real words here in America. You might join us, mate.

We'd been texting like this since the night of the party three weeks ago. I told myself it was only friendly banter, but really, I found myself giddily checking my phone several times a day, hoping to find a message from him.

You mean real words like
ya'll
and
ain't
and
yonder
. Where the hell is yonder, anyway? Is it a nice place or a pisser?

I burst out laughing at the same moment that the door to the room opened. I quickly texted back a smiley face and
Gotta run
, then slid my phone back into my purse. I set my purse down on the desk and looked up to take in the person entering the room. It was a girl who couldn't be any older than me, and sure enough, she looked as though she might cry any second.

I scanned down from her perfectly highlighted hair to her pedicured toes. I smiled despite the urge to ask her if she was in the right place.
No judgment, Kar!
I scolded myself. I had no idea what these people went through daily. Looks could be deceiving, a smile nothing more than a mask.

“Hi there,” I said. “Please, have a seat.” I felt my nerves coiling up, my stomach doing little flips. Who was I to give advice to this girl? But then she was sitting down across from me, and before I could run through the standard questions Tori had taught me, she was talking away.

“I'm sorry,” the girl said. “I know you have real people to talk with.”

I smiled reassuringly. “Don't apologize. You're as real as they are. And so are your problems.”

She chewed her thumbnail, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. “I just found out that I'm going to fail one of my classes this semester. Fail. Like no credit, kill my GPA, fail.”

I released a breath. Classes! I could talk about classes! “What is the class?”

“Art History.”

I groaned. “God, I hated that class.” I'd have to remember to tell Sarah that I wasn't the only one! Then I remembered that I couldn't tell Sarah or anyone else about these sessions. These people were counting on me, trusting me. The thought filled me with pride.

“Right? It's horrible!” she said. “And I've tried, really I have, but I cannot for the life of me recall what is what on my exams. My professor even offered to allow me to test outside of the normal class to try to ease my nerves, but it's no use. I'm just an idiot.”

“No! No, you're not,” I said. “It's hard. What's your major?”

“Biology.”

“See, that's the issue. You're a science major. Nothing with the word
art
in it appeals to you in the same way your science classes appeal to you, am I right?”

“Yes! That's exactly it. Why can't my advisor get that? He's all, ‘It's just Art History,' but it isn't just Art History. It is boring-as-hell Art History.”

I laughed, and she relaxed into her seat. “What's your name?” I asked.

“Brenna. What's yours?”

I smiled. “Kara, and I know just how you feel.”

We spent the next twenty minutes talking about classwork and the stress of succeeding, and by the end of the conversation Brenna left with a wave and a smile and everything in me felt whole. I had helped someone. Me, Kara. Maybe I could do this after all.

I settled back into my chair and switched pages in my notepad, prepared to greet the next person with a new confidence. Kara, the counselor. Kara, clinical psychologist. I wanted to scream with excitement, until the door eased open, and every bit of sureness I had felt before disappeared, only to be replaced with panic. I jumped up, my eyes going wide, the urge to flee so intense I had to concentrate to keep from running out the door and knocking her over in her pregnantastic state and all.

The pregnant teen. Not her. Anyone but her.

I'd been coming to Helping Hands for three weeks now, each time attempting to avoid her, but every time I showed up, she was there, as though she knew my schedule and chose that time slot to need help. I was the youngest volunteer at the center by like twenty years, and I felt sure that had a lot to do with her following me around. But Edna, our nearly elderly volunteer, was better equipped to help the girl than I was.

“Listen, I know you're avoiding me,” she said, her hands out as though she knew I wanted to run and planned to stop me. “Can you just please talk to me? Please.” Her bottom lip shook and she reached her hand out to pat her stomach, rubbing the hand gently back and forth over the basketball-shaped mound, like the baby could somehow feel her hand. Come on. Ridiculous. She caught me looking at her stomach and smiled. “It's a girl. I mean, she's a girl. I keep calling her an
it
for some reason. I guess because it still doesn't feel real.
She
doesn't feel real. You know? Like, how is this my life? But then somehow I love her already. Isn't that crazy?” She stopped to look at me, waiting for confirmation that she was indeed crazy, but all I could think about was the way her voice had warmed when she said she loved her baby, and whether I would have felt that same love for mine. I felt tears burn my eyes and quickly blinked them away before I made the girl question just who was the crazy person in the room.

“Sit down,” I said, motioning to the chair. “You look like you could pop any second. It can't be good for you to stand there like that.”

She eased into a chair, bending back and then slowly lowering herself down, like she wasn't quite sure how to sit in a chair anymore. She adjusted from her right side to her left, then sighed heavily and pushed her bangs out of her face. “My hips are killing me. They say it's round ligament pain, but it feels like my insides are tired of holding her in and are ready to burst. Ugh, it's horrible.”

I fiddled with the box of tissues, bringing out two and folding them into a neat stack. “How far along are you?” I asked, though I didn't really want to know. I wanted to ask her to leave, to find someone else to talk to, but how could I turn her away when she'd clearly made the effort to come talk to me in particular? I couldn't.

“Six months,” she said, “but Addison's big. She could come early.”

“Addison? Is that what you're naming her?”

“Addison Jane, after my mom.”

“That's a nice name,” I said, smiling. “I bet your mom's thrilled.”

Her expression turned so sad I instantly reached for my pile of tissues, which were now five high, and handed one over to her. “Are you okay? I didn't mean to . . .” What? I wasn't sure what I'd said that was so wrong.

The girl, whose name I still hadn't caught, dabbed at her eyes and then clutched the tissue in her right hand, her left on her belly. “My mom died right before I became pregnant. I was angry and sad, so I started drinking and partying, and one day I decided I didn't care anymore. I lost my virginity to a guy I barely knew, and now I have this.” She patted her stomach. “Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard?”

My heart clenched, making it hard for me to breathe, to speak. I knew there were specific things I was supposed to say, things to comfort the girl, but none of those things came to mind. I began to recount Tori's training—get them talking, be supportive, feel out the person's mental stability, take notes for their file—but this was so much more than the two sessions I'd sat in on with Carla, the lead counselor. Every fear I had bubbled to the surface, swallowing up the rest of my thoughts. All I could think about was how right the teen was. What she'd told me
did
sound like the worst thing ever.

But then I took a second to collect my thoughts and I realized that it wasn't. I might have heard a worse story from Olivia. I thought of this girl in front of me, alone and pregnant, and then Olivia, who had lost all her friends in a fire, and couldn't stop wondering which was worse. Maybe there wasn't a worse; maybe they were all just shades of bad. But what made me feel like the most wretched person on the planet was that both of those situations buried what I'd been through, yet I still ruminated on my abortion. Like I pretended I was among them, when, really, I was lucky. The problem was, I didn't feel lucky. I felt like I lived in a world of unlucky, where rainbows were gray things that led to buckets of coal instead of gold.

I drew a breath to clear my thoughts and focused on the girl. “Let's start from the beginning. What's your name?”

“Maggie. Maggie Jean Cope.”

“It's nice to meet you, Maggie. I'm Kara.”

“Do you go to the College of Charleston?”

“I do,” I said, nodding.

Her eyes filled with tears again as she absently ran a hand over her stomach. “That's where I wanted to go. My dad went there. He always talked like it was the best school.”

“It is. And you should totally go. You can still pursue your dreams. Having a baby doesn't have to change anything.” I knew they were empty words the moment they left my lips, but I couldn't tell her what I really thought. Because I knew exactly what she felt. And the moment I had looked down at that pregnancy test, I knew that having a baby would change everything. There'd be no having a normal life again. All I'd become was a mom, the last thing I wanted to be at sixteen, or even now. I tried to smile a bit, but it came out more like a grimace.

Maggie's eyes fell to her stomach. “Thanks, but we both know that isn't true. My life's over now. It belongs to her.”

The sadness in her voice made me want to reach across the desk, to take her hand, to reassure her that everything would be fine, but I couldn't seem to lift my arm to be as supportive as I should. All I could manage was a smile. “I'm sure your dad would still like you to pursue your dreams.”

She laughed sarcastically. “I doubt that. He kicked me out the moment he found out I planned to keep the baby. Said he wouldn't help me raise a bastard child. That I should have an abortion. But I just . . . couldn't. I couldn't kill this little baby. It isn't her fault I messed up.”

My hands shook in my lap, and I tried to regain my composure and slow down my heart rate, but it was no use. All I could hear were the words
kill
and
baby
and suddenly I needed out of the room. Fast. My throat closed up as memories shot through me.
Just breathe, just breathe
. I clenched my eyes tight, panic rippling through me, as I ordered myself over and over to get it under control, to be the adult in the room.
Breathe, Kara, breathe
.

Oh, God, what did I do?

I bolted out the door and down the hall, the words swirling again and again through my mind.
Kill
.
Baby
. A cold sweat burst across my forehead and down my spine. I had just enough time to lock the bathroom door before I wretched out the full contents of my lunch. I wiped my face with a tissue and kneeled down, sure that I was going to vomit again, but instead I closed my eyes and burst into tears.

I killed a baby.

No wonder my parents could barely look at me. There was no wrong worse that what I had done. I thought of my Southern Baptist upbringing, the countless sermons I'd listened to about being good, about being righteous . . . about sin. I went to my classes, went to parties, drank, and all the while I had taken the life of a little baby.

I swallowed hard, fighting for control that wouldn't come, so instead I sat down on the floor of the bathroom and cried for the child I would never know.