Glass Wings: Criminally Yours, page 4
Kennedy is furious. Not just at what happened, but because she sees what it’s already cost. She keeps saying this baby will be born out of wedlock. That you won’t be here for me through the pregnancy. That no one knows how long it will be before you’re out again. She’s terrified time will change you, that prison will take something from you I can’t get back.
I never cared about marriage licenses or “wedlock” until now. But being pregnant has made me see it differently. I don’t want to be alone in this. I don’t want to be a single mother. I don’t want to explain to our child why their father wasn’t there when they were younger.
I’m scared, Easton. More than I’ve ever been. I wasn’t ready for this. I still don’t feel ready. My therapist says the fear is normal, but it doesn’t stop it from eating me alive. I struggle every day with food, with the weight gain, with the voice in my head that says I’m not enough, not healthy enough, not strong enough to do this. I force myself to eat for the baby, even when I don’t want to.
Inside the envelope is the first ultrasound picture. Look at it and know this child is real, ours, waiting for us. But right now, I can’t listen to your voice. I’m not ready. So please … stop calling.
—Harley
I slip the ultrasound photo and letter into the envelope, smooth the seal with trembling fingers, and press a small stamp into the corner. The weight of it feels heavier than paper has any right to be. Carefully, I scrawl the prison’s address across the front, then my own beneath it. Each letter is a reminder of just how far Easton feels from me now.
I tuck the envelope into my bag, setting a reminder on my phone to drop it at the post office later. Even the thought of letting it go makes my stomach twist. Once it’s mailed, there’s no taking the words back.
Kennedy is supposed to stop by soon. She insisted on keeping me company, said it isn’t good for me to be alone too much these days. She worries, even more than I do sometimes, ever since Easton told her about my eating disorder a few years back. He’d confided in her after one of my worst relapses, when he couldn’t be home because of work. She never forgot it. And now, with everything happening, she hovers like a constant shadow. Over the years she’s become protective and anxious over me, making sure I don’t slip too far into old habits.
I haven’t set foot back at work since the festival. The thought of pretending everything was normal felt impossible, so I took a few days off after finding out about the baby. My first doctor’s appointment was supposed to confirm what the test had already told me, that the little life inside me was, in fact, real. Kennedy came with me, her hand wrapped around mine the whole time, steady and warm when I couldn’t stop shaking. I keep imagining what it would have been like instead, if Easton had been there. All I wanted to see was the look on his face when we heard the heartbeat of our child for the first time.
In his place, I witnessed Kennedy burst into tears at the sudden whooshing sound that filled the room. She kept apologizing, but I didn’t mind because I was equally emotional.
When the doctor pointed out the faint flicker on the screen, my breath caught. Before I could even process it, Kennedy squeezed my hand.
“That’s my niece or nephew in there,” she had whispered. She was already calling herself Aunt Kennedy, as if claiming the role would make everything feel less terrifying, less impossible.
I love her for it, but still wish Easton were here. That he was the one crying. That we were the ones celebrating together.
A knock at the front door pulls me from the memory, and I quickly tuck my stationery into its home on my desk before rushing across the apartment to where Kennedy is waiting.
“Sorry I’m late, traffic was a nightmare.” Her long blonde hair is straightened to perfection today, not a strand out of place despite the horrid humidity. She’s wearing a pink romper with a matching pink Chanel bag, which her hotshot boyfriend probably bought her after an argument. He liked to pick on her and then shower her with gifts the next day. Expensive, lavish gifts, she couldn’t afford without him.
She looks like the perfect Barbie doll today, and that small voice in my head, the one that wanted to look just like her, screams.
Shouldn’t have eaten the whole bagel for breakfast. Half would have been fine. You’re fat.
I push that stupid voice into the deepest corner of my mind and put on the biggest smile I can for my best friend because, despite the smile tugging at her pink lips, I see the water in her eyes, the smudged eyeliner. The deep sadness etched into her blue gaze. Ethan often makes her cry, and she tries so hard to hide it from everyone, even deluding herself into believing they would work things out one day.
I just want her to be happy, and I’m afraid that if I speak my mind about her rich boyfriend she’ll run away. So, I listen to her stories and add input only where necessary. I will be here for her when she needs me, just like she is always here for me now.
“You’re doing that thing with your eyes again,” she accuses, kicking her sandals off and walking into the kitchen, putting her bag on the counter. “That thing where you try to read my mind because you’re worrying too much.”
“You’re my best friend, I’m always going to worry.”
Her gaze softens, and she envelops me in the warmest embrace I’ve had in days. “You gotta worry about little bean now, not me.”
I stifle a giggle.
She’s been calling the baby little bean since we left the doctor’s office Tuesday morning. It warms my heart.
“What did you want to do today?” I ask.
“Have you told him yet?” Kennedy pulls away and heads for the fancy coffee machine Easton bought me for Christmas last year; she’s more obsessed with it than I am. After fiddling with the buttons, she puts her special mug on the silver tray and turns to face me while the machine grinds beans behind her.
“I did, and I’m going to send an ultrasound picture … I also asked him to stop calling,” I admit, walking over to my desk and picking up my forgotten mug of tea. I bring it to the kitchen and stick it in the microwave for a few seconds.
“How many letters has he sent?”
“Two.”
“How many times has he called?”
“I’m not sure, a lot. I just can’t believe he did something so stupid to land himself back there after how hard he’s been working to build this life with me.” The microwave beeps loudly, and I grab my now steaming mug of tea before leaning against the counter facing Kennedy.
“Look, I know the lawyer says he was protecting me, which I am of course grateful for, but I don’t understand why he didn’t handle it a different way. He’s never been one to handle things with his fists … but it makes me scared that he could have hurt you,” she admits softly, looking guilty. “And I hate to even say that, because I know that man loves you, but a rage like that can be so blinding, Harley.”
“One thing I know for sure is that he’d never, ever, lay a hand on me.”
“Are you sure? Because I thought the same about—” Her eyes grow large, realizing what she just admitted.
“Kennedy…”
“I didn’t mean to say anything, please just drop it, I’m dealing with it.”
“You can’t stay with him.”
“I won’t, I’m figuring it out. Now, how about you go find that laptop of yours and we make a nursery wish list?”
I know I should press her further, but once Kennedy closed the door on a conversation, that was it.
“We can do that but promise me you will leave him. You can come live with me; there’s always an extra bedroom here for you.”
“I promise, Harley, you have to believe me. I promise.”
We spend the next couple hours making so many wish lists. Kennedy’s been doing her research on Momtok, and know everything I need to get, according to every SAHM influencer on TikTok. She’s even trying to convince me to start my own page, but there is no chance in hell of that happening. I like to watch people make a fool of themselves, not be the one behind the camera.
I find the courage to mail the letter to Easton on my way to work the next day. The newspaper office is bustling as per usual when I arrive. No one seems to have really noticed my absence, but the pile of articles to edit is a reminder that taking too much time off is never a good option. A few of the writers try to pry about Easton since the fight had made social media news, but I keep myself locked away in my office and throw myself back into work, welcoming the distraction.
My first therapy session since everything happened is next. I’m not looking forward to working through my emotions of the arrest, and the news of the baby, but I have to do it.
Clara, the older lady who works the front desk, has a vanilla-scented candle burning when I walk in. She pushes her glasses up her nose and she smiles at me over the computer she’s squinting at.
“Nice to see you, honey,” she greets, and then Doctor Rebecca—or Bec, as she prefers to be called—is at the entrance of the hallway that leads to her office.
“So happy to have you here, Harley.” Doctor Bec smiles warmly, offering the same greeting she always does when I walk into the office. I notice the frown that tugs at her lips when she doesn’t see Easton, since he’s always the one bringing me to therapy, and know that the next hour will be harder than I realized.
Doctor Bec closes the door behind us, and I take my usual seat on the big suede sofa taking up the majority of the space. I fixate my stare on the big fish tank beside the sofa and count the fish like I ‘ve done many times. For some reason I find it oddly soothing to watch them swimming in there and know it’s an obvious ploy to get people to calm down and confess their issues.
“How have you been for the last week?” She always starts with the same question; it’s like a routine at this point. Usually I’d say, ‘Oh, it’s been good. Nothing is new’, but today that sure as hell isn’t the case.
“Easton was arrested last week on Friday and denied bail, so now he’s being sentenced for assault. I found out I’m pregnant the night he was arrested, and then my best friend admitted to having an abusive boyfriend. So honestly, I’m not processing much at this point. That voice in my head is screaming at me not to eat and I’m barely holding on.”
Doctor Bec’s brows shoot to her hairline. I see her attempt to mask her shock at my answer but fail when her lips form a perfect ‘O’.
“Let’s start at the beginning.” Doctor Bec clears her throat. “Why don’t you explain everything for me in detail?”
I spend the next thirty minutes recounting everything from the last week, and Doctor Bec doesn’t say anything. She only nods along, doing a better job at masking her expressions now. When I finally finish, I sag against the couch, completely drained.
“How do you feel about the baby? Are you excited? Are you sad? Are you scared?”
I find it odd for her to ask about the pregnancy first, since she knows how important Easton was—is—to me.
“I don’t want it,” I admit for the first time out loud.
“Can you tell me why?”
“It’s not supposed to happen this way. I don’t care about being married or how old I am, I just want Easton here. I’ve never thought of myself as mother material, and I don’t think I am strong enough to keep myself healthy for this baby and I … I don’t want to let Easton down.”
“Okay, so he’s not here right now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be there when his sentence is over. It also doesn’t mean he won’t be there for you during the pregnancy. You have been keeping yourself healthy the last few months, Harley. As far as I’m aware there haven’t been any relapses, you’ve been eating all your meals and working on loving your reflection in the mirror. I know your body is going to change, but that doesn’t mean the way it looks during pregnancy is permanent. Are you worried Easton won’t want you if you’re bigger than before?”
I nod, hating how she somehow always knows what is really going on in the deepest parts of my mind.
“Have you told him?”
I nod again.
“What did he say?” She leans forward in her chair.
“I wrote him a letter and haven’t had a response yet. But I won’t take his calls.” I look for a reaction in her brown eyes but found none. I hate that she can mask herself so well.
“Why are you pushing him away?”
“He broke his promise to me.”
“Which one?”
“That he’d never end up there again,” I admit softly.
“Was it his fault?”
I hate her questions.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Do you think you will ever be able to forgive him?” Her question bounces off the walls, the words met with silence. I look to the fish that are swimming around with absolutely no worries and envy them.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, hating that I can’t just say yes.
Seven
EASTON
Three Years Ago
Harley’s parents have invited her over for dinner, after hearing that she is in a serious relationship with an ex-convict. She’s a bundle of nerves, with random bursts of anger. I watch from the bed as she paces our bedroom; she’s already changed her dress three times in the last hour.
“Who do they think they are to just demand I come over for dinner? They didn’t even come to my graduation!”
She is also talking to herself while staring at her reflection in the floor length mirror in the corner. She digs her toes into the carpet and sighs, tugging at her hair.
“That’s a pretty dress,” I offer, trying to ease some of her nerves.
“I hate it.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, before darting back to the braid she is trying in her hair. “But it doesn’t matter what I wear because they will pick on everything about me as per usual.”
I stand from the bed and cross the small distance between us, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing a kiss to her neck. “Don’t focus on them. You look pretty and when we get home tonight after dinner, I’m going to enjoy undressing you, Little Bird.”
Her cheeks flush as a small gasp escapes her parted lips.
The chemistry between us is undeniable; there’s this electric current that is always alive, no matter the time of day or the situation we are in. I want her just as much as she wants me.
“You aren’t worried what they will think and say about you?” Her voice is small and hesitant.
“No. Everyone has something to say about what happened, but I know the truth and you know who I am. And at the end of the day, it’s us against the world.”
“I wish I could be as confident as you,” she whispers, leaning against my chest after finishing off the braid lying gently over her shoulder. “They have a habit of making me feel so small and insignificant.”
I hate that anyone has ever made her feel that way, let alone her parents. It’s strange to hear the way she speaks of them, after the few interactions I’ve had with mine, who are loving and supportive despite anything I do. And they love Harley.
“I promise you aren’t small or insignificant to me, you’re my entire world, Harley Cole, and you better never forget it.”
“I love you.” She twists her neck, her lips finding mine in a soft kiss. “Are you ready?” she whispers.
“Let’s get this over with so I can have my way with you when we get home.”
The house is modest, the kind of place where you would expect to find family photos lining the hallways, except there aren’t any. I spot a couple photos of a younger Harley and her parents, but not much.
The front door opens right into the living room, a couch that looks like it has seen better years drawing my eye first. It looked comfortable. Lived in. It should have made me feel at ease, but the air was heavy, thick with something unspoken. Not to mention Harley is as stiff as a rod beside me. Her hand in mine is sweaty, and I can’t help but think about how strange the initial greeting at the front door was.
Her mother didn’t go in for a hug, she opened the door her blue eyes looking over Harley, and then me, before she said hello and invited us in. Her father then shook my hand and greeted Harley, but there seemed to be no love for their daughter in the greeting.
Harley sits close enough that her knee brushes mine under the dinner table, her hand resting lightly over mine. She hasn’t let go of me since we walked in, and I can feel the tension humming through her grip.
Her mom brings dinner to the table: roast chicken, mashed potatoes, a salad that looks store-bought. The way her parents glance at me, like they are circling a conversation already rehearsed, makes my stomach knot tighter than any chain has.
“So,” Diane starts, her tone light, but her blue eyes sharp. “Harley tells us you’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”
Charles clears his throat, setting down his fork with a little too much care. “We asked around. Looked some things up.” His gaze finds mine, steady, assessing. “You’ve … done time.”
The words hit heavier than they should have. Not because they’re new, but because they’re being said here, at a family’s dinner table … in front of Harley.
Harley stiffens; her voice quiet but firm. “Dad …”
I force myself to meet his eyes, my jaw tight. “I’ve made mistakes. I’m not proud of them. But I’m not that man anymore.”
Her mother sighs. “Easton, we’re not trying to attack you.” She folds her napkin with deliberate care, like neat corners can soften the blow of her words. “We just want Harley to have a steady life. A man who can take care of her. Someone who doesn’t carry … all that history. Imagine what people will say to your children once they hear? It’s not a life I want for my child or my grandchildren.”
Harley’s nails dig into my palm. I stare at the half-empty plate in front of me, fighting the urge to slam my fist on the table. Because the worst part is, they aren’t wrong. My record is real. And no matter how hard I fight to be different; it will always be a shadow Harley has to live under.
