Chapter 34: Something I Can Never Have 

February

Later that afternoon, I'm getting dressed for football, and all the guys are giving me a hard time about my promposal. 

I figured this would be coming.

She'll probably get it worse than I do. Pick-six Princess and all. It was a little over the top, but she makes me want to go over the top for her.

"Hey Chaplin," Geno says. "Who knew you were such a romantic bro? Rico Suave over here."

Lucas chimes in. "Yeah, I don't remember these displays of affection with Bree. How do you plan to tell her she's been replaced?"

"She's in Nashville. I doubt she gives a flying fuck about me." I shrug.

"That's not what I heard." Lucas raises his eyebrows.

"What did you hear?"

"Beto thinks he saw her last week. He had to take the day off school to drive his Grandma to the doctor. Anyway, when he went to Oakwood, he thought he saw Bree. It was like eleven in the morning. Said he saw 'that orange cheerleader' when she should have been at school."

"Well, lots of girls get spray tans." I sit on the bench and start tying my cleats. "Doesn't mean it was her. What's Oakwood?"

"It's a mobile home park. Beto's Grandma lives there," Lucas says.

I look up at him. "Bree lives with her Gram in a big house near the school."

"Yeah. It's weird. Hey, Beto! Come here."

Beto pulls his T-shirt on as he ambles over. "Que pasa?"

"Tell Chaplin what you told me, about seeing Bree."

"Oh, man. Yeah. It was so loco. I barely recognized her at first. She wasn't wearing any makeup. Hair was all scraggly. And she had on this oversized men's plaid flannel."

What the fuck?  

"It probably wasn't even her." I stand up and grab my sweatshirt out of the locker. 

"There's not that many orange chicks with white hair around here. Got a good look at her when I was walking Abuela to the car. Bree was lugging a basket of clothes across the lot to the laundry."

I feel nauseous all of a sudden. Something doesn't add up.

But if she really is back, I need to tell her about Peyton. I don't want her to be blindsided.

*****

After practice, I pack my stuff up and stand in the breezeway waiting for Peyton to come out of the girl's locker room.

"Hey," she says, smiling.

"Hey," I say back. "I'm going to run some errands, but I'll be by your house to pick you up around 7:30 for our big Valentine's Day celebration."

I hug her goodbye and run out into the pouring rain toward my car.

I open my map app on my phone and enter "Oakwood Mobile Home Park." It's a five-minute drive south on FM 350.

My heart is practically beating out of my chest as I pull into the rutted lot.

I have no idea which trailer is her dad's.

Sometimes I'm such an idiot.

The rain is pounding against my windshield, so I have to really focus. There are rows and rows of them—long, low white structures with narrow ends facing the gravel and dirt lot, each with a window on that end, peering into the gravel driveway with one window, like rows of square cyclops. I wind slowly through the park, searching for a white jeep.

I ease to a park when I find it and sit there a while waiting for the rain to subside.

Okay, so I'm stalling.

I finally push my door open and slosh through the puddles and muck until I get to the door.

I pound on it for a minute.

Nothing.

Water is dripping from my nose—I have no umbrella. The only thing covering my head is the hood of my sweatshirt. A very absorbent sweatshirt.

I knock again.

This time I hear a voice call, "We don't want any!"

It's definitely her.

"Bree? It's me. Jack."

She cracks the door open ever so slightly and takes in the scene. I must look like a psycho, soaking wet in a black hoodie.

"You're back," I say. Obviously.

She casts her eyes down to the floor and nods. "Yeah, I've been meaning to call you..."

"What happened? Things didn't work out with your mom?"

She just shakes her head, her mouth turned down at the corners like she's trying not to cry.

"Hey, can you just let me in? I'm freezing out here."

She backs up and holds the door open.

I stand there on the linoleum, dripping water all over the floor. She finally realizes that this is a problem.

"Let me get you a towel," she says.

I peel off the hoodie and leave it in a sopping pile by the front door. When she comes back, she hands me a beach towel, and I dry off the best I can while she just stands there in some kind of daze.

She's wearing an oversized T-shirt and short shorts. Her face, every inch of which is normally concealed by make-up of some kind, is bare. Her blonde eyelashes are barely visible around her bottle-green eyes, and her skin has the faint glow of a fading fake tan.

"You wanna come sit down?" She asks.

"Don't mean to get your dad's furniture all wet."

"Oh, believe me. It's seen worse than water. Come on in."

She gestures to a small family room. There's a tattered couch and a swivel chair arranged in front of a large flat-screen TV. She picks up the remote and turns off Say Yes to the Dress.

"Thanks." I wrap the towel around my waist and sit down in the little swivel chair.

"You should have texted me," she says as she sits down on the couch. "I look a mess."

Above her head on the wall-shelves are several picture frames. Bree of varying ages being crowned at various pageants. Bree at the piano on stage. Bree in her cheerleader uniform. Bree in all her glory. My gaze drifts back down to her face. Such a contrast to the heavily painted faces in the pictures. "You look beautiful, Bree," I say. "You always do."

She casts her eyes down to her lap. "Thanks."

I don't even know where to begin. Instead, I study the books she has out on the coffee table. GED and CLEP exam guides are stacked up with several other books. She follows my line of sight and quickly ushers the books from the table to the floor behind the couch.

What the hell is going on?

I look at my watch. It's almost five 'o'clock. I better get to the point. "So, I need to talk to you about something," I say.

She nods. "Yeah, I need to talk to you about something too."

Really?

Maybe she's going to break up with me or tell me she's back with Cash. That would be ideal. Not for her, I mean. But for me. I better let her say her spiel before I do, that way, I don't have to be the one who hurts her.

"Ladies first," I say, spinning the swivel chair back and forth.

She takes a deep breath and nods, staring at the floor.

*****

By the time I get to Peyton's house, I'm three hours late. She sent me about five texts. The last one just said "please respond. I'm really worried something happened to you."

Uh, yeah. Something definitely happened to me.

I should have texted her, but I just couldn't. I have to see her in person.

When I pull up to the front of the house, everything is dark except Emma's window. Peyton's room faces the back yard. I get out of my truck and run under the cover of her front porch.

Then I text her that I'm outside.

The three dots appear and disappear.

The front door opens slowly, and she steps onto the bricks in bare feet with a blanket wrapped around her.

My breath comes out in small, short puffs of steam, and I'm shivering in my still-damp T-shirt and jeans.

She stands there silently, waiting for me to speak.

But I can't. Every time I try, it feels like I'm choking on a stone.

How am I supposed to tell her this?

I feel the tears pooling in my eyes.

"Jack," she says, stepping toward me. "What is it?"

I shake my head and stare at an abandoned bird's nest tucked away in one of the eaves.

"It's Bree," I finally say.

"What happened to her?" she asks, her eyebrows stitched together. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah. She's okay."

"Then what's wrong?" she asks. That haunted look seeps back into her gray eyes.

"She...uh...she's pregnant."

"Oh." she says, stunned. She looks up into the sky, searching for stars that aren't visible.

"I'm so sorry, Peyton."

She cocks her head to one side trying to make sense of it all. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because," I say, my voice catching. "The baby is mine."