Page 27 of Better as It

She gives me the all-knowing look, the one her mother is a master at giving all of us as kids. “I know you find peace in solitude but this is huge. You sure?”

I hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah. I just... I need to think.”

She hugs me—tight, grounding me—and whispers, “You’re not alone in this.”

Logically, I know this. But emotionally, I don’t know how to do this. Maritza knowing me well, leaves with a gentle hug.

I pace the condo for almost an hour, talking to my dog like she’s going to fix everything. “How did this happen?” I ask Skye. She tilts her head.

“You know how,” I answer myself bitterly. “But still. I was careful. Mostly.”

The word echoes. Mostly.

It could be Benji’s. My cycle has been off since losing him. Or because I wanted to be a whore in the midst of my grief, it could be Justin's.

The thought makes me sit on the floor, arms around my knees, back pressed against the cabinet beneath the sink. I don’t cry. Not yet. I think I’m too scared to cry.

Instead, I grab my phone and text Toon.

Can you come get me?

The reply is fast.

Where to?

I can’t talk. I just... need to feel.

Another pause.Be outside in 10.

The wind slaps against my skin like a baptism. Like always Justin doesn’t ask questions. He simply passes me the helmet, waits while I climb on the back of his bike, then revs the engine and pulls away.

I press my forehead to his back, gripping his cut tight between my fingers like it’s the only thing tethering me to earth.

We ride.

Through town. Out past the city limits. Down roads flanked by fields and nothing at all.

The engine roars. The world blurs. And for a little while, I’m not pregnant. I’m not broken. I’m not anyone except the girl holding on to someone who makes it easier to breathe.

After about an hour, he slows and pulls into the gravel lot of a small roadside diner lit by neon and desperation.

He kills the engine. Turns to look at me.

“You hungry?”

I nod. “Starving.”

Inside, it smells like fries and old vinyl booths and something that reminds me of my childhood—maybe grease or grits or comfort.

We order burgers and sweet tea. I pick at the straw wrapper with shaky fingers.

Justin watches me without watching me, that way he always does—quiet, protective, never pushing.

“You ever just feel like the world hit you sideways?” I ask, voice low.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Once or twice.”

The waitress sets down our plates, and we eat in a silence that’s not heavy, just present.

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