SIXTEEN

Hey, Laura. It’s me, Gray.

Can I see you today?

Hey, Laura, I was hoping we could hang out today. Your pick, where ever you want to go. I’ll pick you up.

In the confine of his car, his text stared back at him. Opened, read, ticking blue almost as instantly he had sent it but not a single reply came back to him. He leaned against the reclined car seat, and heaved a sigh, his mouth pressed together in desperation. His teeth were biting into his inner cheeks, and his eyes refused to lift off his iPhone screen for even a second. Grayson had gotten Laura’s new number from her mother the last time he dropped her off two weeks ago, and ever since he had been texting her, he hadn’t gotten a response back but surprisingly, she hadn’t blocked him yet. 

His eyes hovered his phone screen still, his thumb oscillating across the smoothness of the screen and occasionally tapping to keep the light from going out. As the iPhone began to buzz against his calloused palm, indicating he had a call, his eyebrows raised over his eyes hastily at the sleek neat screen at the caller's id in hopes it would be someone he had been anticipating to talk to in forever. But it wasn’t and he damn well wasn’t about to answer that call.

He had parked his car just outside the middle of a deserted area, with short metal gate was deeply rooted into the ground few feet away from where he stood. The afternoon sun bathed the lone building in its warm light. To the outside viewer, the mansion would have seemed pretty much like any other one you could come across in Warmaukey. Large curtained windows set in solid concrete walls and burnt red tiles on the roof. Stone statues guarding the entrance, a freshly trimmed lawn, flowering bushes and sunlight reflecting off the surface of a pool on a typical warm summer day. 

That was the gift Gideon had gifted him on his birthday, and after snooping about for more information, Grayson found out that was where he lived during his high school at Warmaukey. It had previously been a cabin but about a few years ago, it had been taken down and had been replaced by the building that stood now. 

It had previously been Gideon’s, and now it was Grayson’s. A big house, the kind in which most kids dreamed of growing up. Secluded among trees, it had turrets, gables, dormers, balconies, a screened-in front porch, a free-standing garage, a gazebo, a pool, formal gar-dents, the American dream. A well-kept gravel path led to automatic double doors. Inside, rested proudly several brand-new sumptuous vehicles that Gideon had given him access to. He wanted to live a simple life but there was nothing simple about being part of the Cortez. The name itself was extravagant, and you just couldn’t avoid the extreme benefits that came with it. 

Grayson had moved in the day Gabriel returned to Beverly Hills, California. And though things had been a little lonely, and hard, he was trying to learn how to adapt and do the simple stuffs by himself without having workers scampering about every corner of the house. Simple stuffs like cleaning, preparing breakfast, and doing laundry. The previous night he had broken a plate while trying to get dishes done and a shard had lodged into his thumb in the process, causing him to bleed out. 

It was only just two weeks since he started living alone, one month after he turned eighteen, and it already felt like the hardest point of his life.

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Elizabeth had been feeling funny lately, a little fuzzy, a little nauseated, a lot sick. 

She hadn’t thought much of it. She had tried to overlook the constant morning sickness and wave of nausea that hit her at the slightest smell of anything unpleasant, and rather focused on her work instead. She had gotten such strong wave of artistic motivation, and had been working like never before. Her boss was pleased with her, Elizabeth could tell, the new ideas. She could see the look of support he gave each time she presented him of her new designs on papers before she made them into beautiful wears that could be worn, touched, felt. She had covered up so much work in just a few weeks and was planning on pitching her designs to be used in the next upcoming fashion show her boss was organizing. 

Her designs were almost never used on the runway, and when Ross gave approval that if she could meet up the expectations of the type of designs he wanted, they were going to  be used all through the fashion show and she’d finally earn a little of that recognition she’s always sorted, her excitement had known no boundaries at all. 

This could have been the beginning of a new era, or the beginning of a new era. Ross had advised she went to the hospital to get checked up and took a day or two off work before she resumed back. She hadn’t really known she had looked so sick. No. Not until she’d excused herself to go to the restroom In the middle of a conference meeting. She hadn’t exactly worded out that she needed excuse. She hadn’t said: “Hey, I might need to go real quick.” 

She had felt the bile rising up her throat, and had been sucking in her breath and clenching her fists to hold it in but when that seemed near impossible, she bolted out of her seat and straight out of the conference room, leaving her colleagues and boss looking stunned as she did so.

So at that moment, she stood in front of the mirror in the restroom, water running down her face in drip drop drip pattern into the sink below her. The tap was running, washing out the remnant of cream-ish chunk of food that had been her breakfast that morning. Oat. Her hands clenched the sink tightly and her knuckles were whitened. The blonde woman in the mirror opposite her was a complete contrast to what she looked like a few weeks ago. Of course, she wasn’t big on make ups because her skin was very acne prone but it was obvious she might need to start caking herself up in a little if she wanted to look presentable. Her hair were sticking to her forehead and temples in damp threads and dark circles were under her eyes from the sleepless nights she had from designing new clothes in hopes she kept on impressing Ross. 

She had a whole lot on herself at the moment, and she didn’t know what to think of this sudden illness. Elizabeth decided to throw her hair into a pony tail and tightened it with the black scrunchy on her right hand. And then she bent down and splashed some more water on her face, tried to rinse the after vomit taste with it too but it stuck and she could taste it at the back of her throat. 

She wondered what smell had nauseated her so bad that made her vomit. Yesterday, it had been the smell of food from the diner she had loved since she was a kid. Surprisingly, the moment she stepped in, and the strong —previously— inviting aroma had reached her, she had covered her mouth and instantly backpedaled out of the place. She ended vomiting by the dumpster behind the diner, the smell of the trash had however contributed to the sickening vomit. 

Today was a different case, she had been in the conference room and the air was cool and smelled sweet of various body sprays and cologne from her co workers and boss. Everyone smelt of something —cool, sweet, strong— but someone had  to have ticked her off. As she wiped her mouth with a napkin, someone joined her in the restroom, and then the nauseating perfume scent was back. Before she could even discover who it was, she was bent over the sink and puking her guts all over again. 

The sound of toilet flushing went off behind her in one of the stalls and when she raised her head from the sink, her co worker, Naomi was standing next to her, washing her hands beneath running water. The woman looked at Elizabeth with a teasing smile, and a playful gleam in her eyes. “First few weeks?” 

Elizabeth was holding in her breath, trying not inhale anymore of the perfume. Her palm was over her nose and she raised her brows in a questioning look at the shorter woman. “Few weeks of what?” Her voice came off muffled.

Naomi wasn’t offended by Elizabeth covering her lower face. She understood. She was a mother of three herself and gone through the pregnancy stages thrice. “Pregnancy? Or are you—” She caught herself, and puckered her brows in a dazed expression. “Are you not pregnant? Am I wrong?”

Elizabeth made a pf-ft sound and rolled her eyes like the woman didn’t know what she was spewing. You can’t just tag every nauseated woman as being pregnant, she thought, that’s like a mean stereotype. In her view, it was equivalent to going into a hospital and marking every patient you saw vomiting as pregnant. That old man puked, he’s pregnant. The baby puked, its pregnant. She’s pregnant. He’s pregnant. You’re pregnant. I’m pregnant? “I’m not even seeing anybody at the moment...” and then it occurred to her and reality hit her so hard across the face, she thought her neck would snap from the impact. Not literally. Her next words came off in strings of stutters. “Y-y-you think I’m pregnant?”

Naomi shrugged, she had a Canadian accent when she stressed her words more than usual, showcasing the fact only slightly that she wasn’t from around there. “I might be wrong. But to be on a safer side, get a test strip from the pharmacy or go to the hospital and take a blood test.”

Elizabeth looked at Naomi as if she were talking crazy. She had known her ever since she started working there two years ago. The woman had a dark, ashen skin tone, and acted like a mother to everyone of the younger ladies. She was 54 at most, and already had her three grown children and four grandchildren. The woman had to know what she was talking about, right?

Right?