Read Online What You Left Behind by Jessica Verdi - Free Book Online Page B

the father’s last name,” she said.
    â€œI have my mom’s last name.”
    â€œYeah, but that’s because you don’t have a dad.” She gave me a look that gave extra meaning to her words: I didn’t have a dad, but maybe I could if I wanted. If I decided to track down Michael.
    I shook my head at her. I wasn’t ready for the Michael stuff yet. “But this baby will have a mom and a dad,” I said. “So that’s not a good argument. And since you won’t marry me…”
    â€œRyden, come on, we’ve talked about this.”
    We had. A couple of times, actually. And she kept shooting me down. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I wanted to get married. Jesus, getting married at seventeen is nuts. But so is having a kid. And since we were doing that, I wasn’t going to leave her when she needed me the most. I wanted to show her how much I loved her. But she kept saying no. She said it “wasn’t something she felt she needed to do.”
    â€œI’m just saying, all things being equal, I don’t get why the baby automatically has to have my last name. You’re the one doing all the heavy lifting.” I put my hand on her huge, round stomach. The baby didn’t kick, which was fine by me—that shit freaked me out.
    â€œYeah, I am,” she agreed. “So I get to decide. And I want her to have her father’s name. The end.”
    I sighed. Whatever. Fine. I wasn’t going to fight with her about something as stupid as a last name. “And what about the first name? Hope?”
    â€œHope.”
    â€œWhy Hope?”
    She just stared at me, like I was slow.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œBecause it’s hopeful , you dumbass. She’s stuck inside here”—she rubbed her hand over her belly, linking her fingers with mine—“in this sick, all-wrong body, not getting the best start, you know? And…” She took a deep breath. “And I really don’t know if she’ll be okay, Ryden.” Her lower lip started to wobble. “But I really hope she will.”
    I gently reached out and brushed my thumb over her quivering mouth, feeling like breaking down in sobs too but really, really trying to stay strong. What Meg said about the baby was exactly how I felt about her . I didn’t know if she would be okay, but I really hoped she would. She wasn’t looking so good lately. Her face was drawn, her skin had lost its luster, and her eyes looked so, so tired.
    â€œHope is a really good name,” I whispered. And I kissed her.
    I close the book when I reach the end of the entry, but something’s nagging at me that I can’t put my finger on. Meg recounted that conversation pretty much exactly the way I remember it, but though the memory is the same, it feels weird now. Off, like there’s something between the lines, something I’m missing. Huh.
    It takes every ounce of energy I have—which, let’s be honest, isn’t much lately—to close the book after the second entry. I’ll read more tomorrow.
    I bring the book to my face. It smells like her house, like Glade PlugIns and chocolate-cake-scented candles and carpet shampoo. That scent used to work its way into her hair. Whenever I had my arm around her—walking with her in the halls or around the neighborhood in the snow after she got too weak to go to school—I would lean down, kiss her head, and breathe it in. When that delicious, familiar smell hit me, I would have to stop, wherever we were, and kiss her. And every single time, she snuggled closer into me.
    I lie down, place the book right next to me on my pillow, and let its lingering scent waft over me.
    â€¢ • •
    I jolt upright.
    Shit. It’s Sunday night. 7:36 p.m. Soccer starts tomorrow morning, and I haven’t figured out what to do about Hope. I’m screwed.
    Still half asleep, I reach out for my phone, and