audio.
“Can I release a statement?” I ask timidly. I don’t have a publicist. All I have is me and what I know of Sloane. “I’ll say I had nothing to do with these accusations.” Even better… “Can you release a statement, Grandma?”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” she vows, tight with anger, before storming out and slamming my door shut, not taking a moment to consider what I asked of her. I glance at my phone and stumble to it, sick at the goings-on of the past hour.
Picking the phone up, I press it. The call with Crowell has ended. I’m not sure how much he heard, but maybe, he’ll help me to undo this. He’ll advise me about how to reach the press.
I swallow. Crowell hates Sloane.
Once again, I’m alone, literally and metaphorically. I glance at my trembling hands, scrunching my nose at my soiled sundress. Vomit still dirties the floor. My belly tightens and my shoulders heave, so I wrap my arms around my enormous stomach. My doctor estimates Bryn is already seven pounds, and I still have seven days left before my due date. She’s a big baby.
Lindsey and I stare at one another for a long time. As I wait for her to walk away, I can think of nothing to say, not even a plea to ask her to stay. Sooner or later, everyone leaves me. Josh is returning to town next week, bowing to my request he come in for the birth of the baby.
He isn’t happy I’m pregnant, but he’s coming home for me. If I don’t go into labor within a week of his arrival, he’s warned me he won’t be in town when his niece is born.
Lindsey nods to my vomit. “Why don’t you clean yourself up while I see to this mess in here?”
I blink, feeling trapped inside of a suffocating bubble. Her words penetrate my haze. I comprehend them slowly. Full understanding dawns on me and I start in surprise. “You’re not leaving?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why would you think I’d leave now?”
Shrugging, I lower my lashes. “Everyone does.”
Not commenting, she surprises me and offers me a hug, which I haven’t received since Sloane left me.
“Everything’s going to work out with you and your rock star, Georgie.”
I want to believe her so bad, but I don’t. I can’t. That would be setting myself up for an even harder fall than the one I suffered when Sloane pushed me away. Nothing has ever worked out for us.
That won’t change anytime soon, especially after this.
I stand in Bryn’s nursery. It has a cream and yellow scheme. Yellow is a happy color to me, representing the brightness of daytime, and we all need a little sunshine in our lives.
Slowly I turn, taking in everything to make sure nothing’s out of place. Bryn has to have perfection.
On three of her walls are one-of-a-kind paintings. The fourth one, closest to her bed, is a photo of Sloane. I intend to raise her so she’ll know who her father is, but won’t hold his absence against him. Or blame herself, as children sometimes do.
All of my scrapbooks and band paraphernalia are lost, left in my suite at Mom and Dad’s house. She’s probably destroyed everything by now. Either way, I won’t have the items to share with Bryn.
The photo of Sloane on her wall isn’t my all-time favorite of him. The one where he’s on the magazine cover, arms spread, back to the camera, and offering the full effect of his back piece. The phoenix rising from the flames.
This picture is recent. He looks leaner and his blue eyes are sadder. I’d love to know what’s going through his mind.
More than anything, I wish to speak to him. After six days, the coverage is non-stop. Grandma has guards all over the grounds. ID is required to get on the property though I can’t escape the whir of helicopter blades at all hours. I haven’t ventured outside in days. All they’ll have to do is catch sight of me and my huge belly, and they’ll know the truth.
Before I allow that—
“Georgiana!”
I cringe at Grandma’s call. I
“Can I release a statement?” I ask timidly. I don’t have a publicist. All I have is me and what I know of Sloane. “I’ll say I had nothing to do with these accusations.” Even better… “Can you release a statement, Grandma?”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” she vows, tight with anger, before storming out and slamming my door shut, not taking a moment to consider what I asked of her. I glance at my phone and stumble to it, sick at the goings-on of the past hour.
Picking the phone up, I press it. The call with Crowell has ended. I’m not sure how much he heard, but maybe, he’ll help me to undo this. He’ll advise me about how to reach the press.
I swallow. Crowell hates Sloane.
Once again, I’m alone, literally and metaphorically. I glance at my trembling hands, scrunching my nose at my soiled sundress. Vomit still dirties the floor. My belly tightens and my shoulders heave, so I wrap my arms around my enormous stomach. My doctor estimates Bryn is already seven pounds, and I still have seven days left before my due date. She’s a big baby.
Lindsey and I stare at one another for a long time. As I wait for her to walk away, I can think of nothing to say, not even a plea to ask her to stay. Sooner or later, everyone leaves me. Josh is returning to town next week, bowing to my request he come in for the birth of the baby.
He isn’t happy I’m pregnant, but he’s coming home for me. If I don’t go into labor within a week of his arrival, he’s warned me he won’t be in town when his niece is born.
Lindsey nods to my vomit. “Why don’t you clean yourself up while I see to this mess in here?”
I blink, feeling trapped inside of a suffocating bubble. Her words penetrate my haze. I comprehend them slowly. Full understanding dawns on me and I start in surprise. “You’re not leaving?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why would you think I’d leave now?”
Shrugging, I lower my lashes. “Everyone does.”
Not commenting, she surprises me and offers me a hug, which I haven’t received since Sloane left me.
“Everything’s going to work out with you and your rock star, Georgie.”
I want to believe her so bad, but I don’t. I can’t. That would be setting myself up for an even harder fall than the one I suffered when Sloane pushed me away. Nothing has ever worked out for us.
That won’t change anytime soon, especially after this.
I stand in Bryn’s nursery. It has a cream and yellow scheme. Yellow is a happy color to me, representing the brightness of daytime, and we all need a little sunshine in our lives.
Slowly I turn, taking in everything to make sure nothing’s out of place. Bryn has to have perfection.
On three of her walls are one-of-a-kind paintings. The fourth one, closest to her bed, is a photo of Sloane. I intend to raise her so she’ll know who her father is, but won’t hold his absence against him. Or blame herself, as children sometimes do.
All of my scrapbooks and band paraphernalia are lost, left in my suite at Mom and Dad’s house. She’s probably destroyed everything by now. Either way, I won’t have the items to share with Bryn.
The photo of Sloane on her wall isn’t my all-time favorite of him. The one where he’s on the magazine cover, arms spread, back to the camera, and offering the full effect of his back piece. The phoenix rising from the flames.
This picture is recent. He looks leaner and his blue eyes are sadder. I’d love to know what’s going through his mind.
More than anything, I wish to speak to him. After six days, the coverage is non-stop. Grandma has guards all over the grounds. ID is required to get on the property though I can’t escape the whir of helicopter blades at all hours. I haven’t ventured outside in days. All they’ll have to do is catch sight of me and my huge belly, and they’ll know the truth.
Before I allow that—
“Georgiana!”
I cringe at Grandma’s call. I
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