Page 95 of Embracing the Beat
Dropping to my chair, I breathe out a sigh of relief at the quiet, my internal monologue finally alone instead of wrapped in the chaos around me. A small part of me wants to hide out here, in the quiet classroom, instead of facing the uncertainty waiting.
But the bigger part of me needs to know, requires answers for the questions that continue to plague me after seeing Michaela’s picture on TV.
And between the questions is this insidious little voice, constantly whispering Ashley’s name. Pointing out all the ways I should have noticed she was cheating before I was smacked in the face with it.
“No.” I shake my head to dispel the toxic thoughts. “Michaela isn’t Ashley.”
Then why didn’t she tell you about Jax?
What about him?
The image of the two of them kissing forms in my brain, next to the image of the seemingly innocent touch at lunch. I’m so tempted to Google the two names that my phone ends up in my hand before I realize it.
“Don’t do it.” I set the device on my desk. “This is not the answer.”
I need to talk to her.
Knots form in my stomach as I leave the building, and they tighten as my car gets closer to the house. Even the safe-choice sandwich isn’t sitting well, based on the tension clamping my stomach in a vise.
Neither Dan nor Kelly’s car is in the driveway or garage, which I’m grateful for. I’d rather talk to Michaela without an audience.
Maybe she’s not here. Maybe she’s still in California.
She didn’t text or call me when she landed, but after our argument last night, I’m not surprised.
Unfortunately, logic has no place in my brain right now. Instead, my mind flips through images—ones I haven’t seen proven in pictures, and I force them away, unlocking the door and stepping out of the bright afternoon sunlight. Is it an omen that the damn door handle is molten lava in my hand? A warning to stay away?
I push through the uncertainty, closing the door and leaning against it, feeling like I’ve run a marathon in the time it took me to walk from my car to the house.
“Mich—” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Michaela?”
No response. Eyeing the stairs like they lead to hell, I put one foot in front of the other as I climb, my hand gripping the banister tightly while the treads creak under my weight. The shower drones from the bathroom down the hall. Since Dan and Kelly aren’t home, it must be Michaela.
What if she’s not alone?
“You’re an idiot, Abbott.”
She’s given me no reason to question her, but doubt still sits like acid in my stomach.
She and I have showered together dozens of times. Fuck, I’ve seen her naked at least once a day almost every day for the last month. I don’t bother to knock before I twist the handle and push, bracing myself for what I might find.
“West!” she squeaks, sitting on the toilet seat, fully dressed, trying to hide the box in her hand.
But she can’t hide it.
“What”—My throat is suddenly, painfully dry, despite the humidity from the steaming shower—“is that?”
I point to the box she grips. It’s hot pink with purple writing. But maybe I’m hallucinating.
“It—I—What—”
She stutters through several starts before falling silent again, her eyes wide.
“Michaela, are you pregnant?” I force the words out, past and present colliding quickly enough to make me dizzy, and I lean against the doorjamb for support.
“I…don’t know,” she admits.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” I snap. “I thought you were on birth control.”
