Page 8 of Your Second Chance
On the other hand, I was wearing a black cardigan, my black Docs, a cropped black top, and a pair of wide-legged jeans. My hair was straightened because Luna insisted.
“Do you think I need to call him?” I asked as we walked toward the White Swan, a pub that supposedly did an amazing dinner on Sundays.
“Who? Hot assistant coach?” She linked her arm through mine. “Fuck yeah.”
I huffed out a breath. I couldn’t date. She knew it. Plus, I was never... ever going to fraternize with anyone at my work because look at where that got me. Let’s not forget to add the fact that in a few months, everyone was going to see my round belly and be utterly disgusted with me, not wanting to date a pregnant lady.
“No.” I paused. “Austin.”
“Hmmm,” Luna responded.
“I feel like I need to tell him.”
“I mean, I agree. He is the biological father or whatever,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulders. “But you can wait a little bit. When people first enter rehab, they don’t really have phone privileges and stuff, so I’d wait a month, maybe until your next appointment.”
I nodded and bit my lip. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll wait a month. Plus, with my PCOS, it may be better to wait until I’m past twelve weeks.”
I closed my eyes as we walked in silence to the pub. Luna pulled my shoulders, forcing me to face her.
“I’m worried as shit about you,” she said seriously. “You aren’t yourself. I’ve been reading about it, and for a minute, I thought it was hormones and the stress of your life, but you’re really fucking down lately.” She grabbed a strand hanging in my face. “Like, when was the last time you washed your hair, Nove?”
No idea.“In America?”
“That... no.” Luna shook her head. “Unacceptable. We gotta get you out of this funk. Otherwise I’m mentioning it at your next appointment, and we’ll get you some happy pills.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t against medications, but there weren’t many I could take safely. “I... I’ll get over it. I think I need to get out.”
Because sitting at home was killing me.
I sat at home and thought about my failed marriage. I sat at home and remembered when Austin threw a glass at me, how it shattered, how I sank to the floor with blood dripping down my hand and thought,Is this love?
I sat at home and thought about my mom—mydeadmom—and all the moments I missed in her last months because I’d been consumed with Austin. Consumed with trying to hold together something that was already beyond broken.
I sat at home and wallowed in my own filth, trapped in a loop of sad, disgusting thoughts because I didn’t know how or where to begin loving myself. I couldn’t find peace, not in my work, not anywhere—not when I was puking in bathrooms and embarrassing myself in front of people I barely knew.
“Let’s go get food,” I said suddenly, pointing at my stomach. “The kernel is hungry, and this smells good.”
Luna’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Now you’re talking.”
She grabbed my arm and practically dragged me inside the little pub. The place was packed, which surprised me—I always figured Sunday roast was a quiet, family affair, but apparently not.
It was loud, warm,alive. A stark contrast to the walls I’d been hiding behind.
“Looks like the whole city had the same idea.” Luna squeezed us through the narrow entryway.
I took a deep breath, letting the chatter and clanging of plates drown out the noise in my head.
We found a small table in the corner, one of those wobbly ones, but Luna grinned like we’d hit the jackpot. The pub buzzed with life—warm light, the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and laughter spilling over from every corner.
The waitress appeared quickly, a smile plastered on her face despite the rush. “What can I get you two lovelies?”
“Two Sunday roasts,” Luna said without hesitation.
“And drinks?”
“Pint of lager for me,” Luna replied smugly.
“Just a soda, thanks,” I added, my voice quieter.
