looking out for you.”
“Izzy—”
“I really do have to go now.”
Using the heel of her running shoe to flip the kickstand, Izzy climbed aboard her bike and pushed forward toward Latke, urging her to fall into step. Nate watched her every move but didn’t try to stop her this time as she checked for traffic and made a U-turn on Vista Road.
Traveling downhill, Izzy went as fast as she dared push her trotting dog, desperate to outrun worry and the tears that, finally, would not be denied. She swiped the back of her hand across her nose and used her palm to wipe her eyes. Determined to keep the details of her home life private when she was younger, she’d kept to herself in middle and high school, flying as far under the radar as possible and even earning the nickname “Loner Chick.” After a while, she’d been largely ignored, which had been fine by her. She’d never traded one word with Nate Thayer until the summer after he’d graduated.
What a tangled web she had woven when she, a girl from as far over the wrong side of the tracks as you could get, fell in love with the golden boy of Thunder Ridge. And got pregnant.
That hadn’t been her biggest sin, though. No, not by a long shot. Her biggest sin had been believing Nate loved her back, that he would change his mind about the baby and that they would live happily ever after. Her biggest sin had been telling herself the lie that when you loved hard enough, all your dreams would come true.
For Izzy, “home” was the one-word description of the blood, sweat and tears she had put into constructing not just a building but a family. The deli had been her first real home, and she had happily painted its aged walls, twisted new washers onto leaking faucets and waxed its linoleum tiles until the memory of their former luster glinted through the wear and tear.
It was the same with the cottage in which she and Eli made their home. When she’d first laid eyes on the 860-square-foot space, her heart had sunk. The tiny house was all she’d been able to afford and even then she’d had to borrow the down payment (paid back in full) from her boss Henry, who by that time had become more of a surrogate father to her.
The prospect of owning her own home, a place she and her son could call theirs forever, had pushed her to overlook the dark wood walls, the ugly threadbare carpets and the cracked enamel in the ancient claw-foot tub, not to mention the spaces in the roof shingles through which she could actually see the sky. Izzy and Eli, who by then had turned seven, dubbed the little house Lambert Cottage, and she’d learned all she could about repairs and improvements.
Today their home was a sunny, whitewashed space with a scrubbed pine floor she’d discovered beneath the carpets, and pale pear-green furniture she’d reupholstered on her own. She made Thanksgiving dinners in her tiny kitchen and hosted birthday parties in a garden filled with azalea, honeysuckle and lydia broom. It was no longer possible to see sky through the roof, but there were times late at night as Izzy lay in bed saying her prayers that she gazed into the darkness above her head and was sure she could see heaven. Coming home never, ever failed to soothe and reassure her.
Except this afternoon.
Unleashing Latke, she set out a bowl of fresh water, chugged a tumbler of iced tea, rinsed her glass and set it upside down on the wooden drain rack, just as she would have done on any normal day. The difference was that today her hands shook the entire time, and she thought she might throw up.
Since she’d pedaled away from Nate, memories had been buffeting her so hard she felt like a tiny dinghy on a storm-ridden sea. Some of the memories were good. So good that yearning squeezed her heart like a sponge. Others were more bittersweet. But there was one memory that rose above the others, whipping up a giant wall of emotion that threatened to capsize her: the recollection of the day she’d accepted that the boy she loved was never going to love her back, not the same way, and that she’d rather be alone the rest of her life than beg for a love that wasn’t going to come...
Fifteen years earlier...
Nate ran his fingers through his hair—that famously thick black hair—then remained head down, elbows on knees, hands cradling his forehead. “Damn it.”
Izzy winced at the frustration in his tone, wondering if he was directing it at her, at the news she’d just given him or at both. Probably both. What hurt the most, she thought, was that the best summer of her life was now quite clearly the worst of his. “I’m sorry.”
What a stupid thing to say! Plus, she’d whispered the words, which made the fact that she’d apologized even worse.
She was no wimp. But sitting next to Nate on a bench in Portland’s Washington Park, exhausted and freaking terrified, she figured that if I’m sorry was the best she could do, then so be it. Seventeen had felt so much older and more mature just a week ago. Tonight she felt like a little girl afraid of the dark and of the unknown.
“You’re positive?” Nate demanded. His voice, which had always made her think of soft, dark velvet, tonight sounded more like a rusty rake scraping cement.
Izzy nodded. She was “positive,” all right. She’d bought four early-pregnancy tests, which had sucked up three hours’ worth of income from her job waiting tables at The Pickle Jar deli. Every single test had turned up a thin pink line. She’d never liked pink.
“I’m pregnant,” she confirmed. May as well get used to saying it out loud.
“How?” Raising his head, Nate looked at the evening skyline beyond the Rose Test Garden, where they sat, rather than at her.
How? How was obvious, right? They’d been having sex since May. Nearly four full months of his waiting for her when she got off work at the restaurant and then whisking her away in his old Toyota pickup. It could have been a limousine or a horse-drawn carriage—that was how lucky Izzy had felt to be driving into the night with Nate Thayer.
“I mean, we used protection,” Nate said now, trying to reason out her news. “Every time.”
Hardly the words of comfort—and solidarity—she’d been hoping for.
Suck it up, Izz. He’s shocked.
A year older and already graduated from high school, Nate had plans for his life...so did she...plans that did not include becoming a teenage parent.
“Not every time,” she countered.
“What?”
“Protection. We didn’t use it every time. Not on the Fourth of July.”
“The Fourth? Yes, we—” He stopped. And swore again.
Her heart, which for the past few months had felt as if it were unfolding like one of the roses in Washington Park, suddenly shriveled around the edges.
They’d made love in the bed of his truck nearly two months ago on Independence Day, atop a thick pile of sleeping bags. With most of the people in their hometown watching the fireworks down at the river, she and Nate had agreed to keep their romance as private as possible. Izzy hadn’t wanted to invite prying eyes or unwelcome comments. So on that Fourth of July, they’d driven to the resort where he’d worked over the summer. Parked near a small lake, with Santana cranked up on the radio, Nate had gazed down at her. The lights in the distance had
