Page 60 of Blurred Lines

There's joy in my heart, yes, although I'm a mess right now. I could be a mother. I could be a mother.

My decision crystallizes. I need to leave, to return to the chaotic embrace of New York City.

Waiting it out in NYC, where the noise can drown out my fears, seems like the only viable plan. I'm certain, with a clarity that cuts deep, that the potential father of this child will abandon us. The fear isn't just about the act of leaving; it's about what it signifies—the confirmation of my deepest insecurities, the realization that I'm not enough, that this child won't be enough to make him stay.

Plus. My eyes scan the Polaroid once more, disgust making my insides coil tightly. This town clearly has it out for me. If I stay, I'm going to expose any child of mine to this dirtiness. They don't deserve that.

You're saying all these things because you're too afraid of admitting the truth, a voice in my head erupts. I shake it violently. No, I will not be swayed.

It takes me twenty minutes to book a flight back, courtesy of my agent.

My hands shake as I yank the suitcase from under the bed, the sound grating in the silence of my room. Clothes lie scattered around, mirroring my frantic state of mind. I grab at them, not bothering to fold, my movements erratic, driven by a desperate need to escape, to run from the wave of emotions threatening to engulf me.

"I could be a mother," I whisper aloud to the empty room. My heart races, a wild drumbeat echoing in my chest as I shove items into the suitcase. Each piece feels like a decision, a step further away from the life I've known and toward the unknown.

The phone rings, slicing through the chaos of my thoughts. Flora's name flashes on the screen, a lifeline I'm not sure I want to grab. I hesitate, then answer, pressing the phone against my ear with a trembling hand.

"Em, where are you? Want to meet?" Her voice is so … cheerful. She doesn't know I'm about to break her heart.

"Flo," I start, then pause to swallow a gulp of air. "Flo, I have to go back to New York."

There's a beat of silence. Then she speaks, "Why?"

"I—my period is late."

Another pause. "Em, but this is good news, right? This is what you've thought impossible for an age?—"

"It's not about that," I say, trying to sound stoic, but my voice comes out all strangled and funny. "I just can't do it here, can't go through the ordeal of asking a man to raise a child if they're not willing to."

"Emily, please, just listen," Flora's voice is calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging within me.

"I can't, Flora. I just … I have to do this," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, the sound of fabric rustling in the background as I continue to pack.

"Running won't solve this. Your fears, they'll just follow you to New York. You can't outrun your ghosts," she pleads, her words heavy with concern.

Tears blur my vision, each of Flora's words like a shard of glass piercing my resolve. "Not all men will abandon you like our father did, Em. You don't have to do this alone."

Her attempt to anchor me to hope, to a chance of a different outcome, feels like a tether I'm desperate to cut. "You don't understand. I … I have to think about what's best for … for the baby. Going solo is the only way."

The clothes in my suitcase are a jumbled mess. I can hear Flora's sigh, the sound heavy with unspoken words and shared memories of a past that haunts us both.

"This time can be different. We can make it different," she says, but her words sound miles away, drowned out by the loud thrumming of my own fears.

I can't absorb her words, can't let myself hope. The thought of facing this in Emberton, under the weight of expectations and the shadow of past hurts, is overwhelming. "I just … I need space, Flora. To breathe, to think, to … to process this on my terms."

The conversation spins, Flora's voice a steady stream of reassurances and pleas, but they bounce off me, unable to penetrate the armor I've built around my decision. I continue to pack, my movements mechanical, as I try to shut out the growing dread that I'm making a mistake—one I can't undo.

"Emily, please," Flora's voice cracks, and my heart with it. "Don't make a decision out of fear. Give the men a chance to prove you wrong."

But fear has been a constant companion, whispering that I'm not enough, that this child won't be enough. How can I stand still, how can I hope, when every instinct screams to protect this potential life from the pain of abandonment?

"I … I have to go, Flora. The flight leaves soon," I lie, the urgency in my voice betraying my panic.

There's a pause, a breath, a heartbeat. "I'll be here. We'll be here, Em. When you're ready to come home."

The call ends, and the silence is suffocating. I look around, my room a battlefield of half-packed belongings and shattered certainties. The suitcase lies open, a gaping maw waiting to swallow the remnants of my life here.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the fabric of a shirt crumpled in my hands, and allow myself a moment of weakness. Tears spill over, a silent testament to the battle raging within. The joy of potential motherhood is tarnished by fear, and the decision to flee feels like a coward's way out yet the only path I can see.

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