Emila's POV
That night, thunder shook the whole cabin. I tried to pretend like I wasn't absolutely terrified of it, failed miserably.
The wind screamed like something dying. I lay on the cold floor, wide awake, and touched the scar on my shoulder. The one my father gave me with his belt after Paolo.
It was weird, how my life had been distinctly classified into two, with Paolo and After Paolo.
With Paolo, a thunderstorm meant, he was seconds away from calling, seconds away from pretending he had one odd job or another to fix in my room, it could be fixing an squeak in the door that only he could hear or a leak in the brand new sink in the bathroom, what chore he chose, it ran long till the storms passes. Then he would quietly pick up his tools and quietly kiss me good night and leave.
It didn't matter how old I became, Thunderstorm meant Paolo was very close.
But that was with Paolo. After Paolo, Thunderstorm meant anguish and guilt and a dead brother.
Thunderstorm now meant another second had gone by and no one avenged his death, no one probably will because I was a scared little coward who was still afraid of thunderstorms.
No backbone. No grit. Just a whole lot of soul crushing fear.
He was dead. And I was here. Alone in the dark.
I tried not to shake. I really tried. But my whole body trembled anyway.
And then I started thinking about Luca to escape.
His hands on my skin. His laugh when I messed up. The way he looked at me like I was something good, not just something useful.
The rose he left. No thorns. Like he wanted to give me something beautiful without letting it hurt me.
"Why didn't you run?" I whispered to the empty room.
The thunder roared back.I covered my head with the blanket.
Like I said, coward.
By week two, I woke up with metallic taste in my mouth. That sour, sharp taste.
I barely made it outside before throwing up in the mud.
My knees sank into cold dirt as rain soaked through my clothes.
Linda stood in the doorway. "Flu?" She asked. She wasn't one to use many words these days.
"Bad beans," I said, wiping my mouth. My hair stuck to my face like wet ropes.
"Bull." She tossed me a rag. "You've been puking three mornings in a row."
I rinsed my mouth with water that tasted like poison. And gave her a look.
"My Aunt Greta puked too during her...." She started but I didn't want to hear her, so I cut her off.
"You're not a doctor, Linda. It's just the Flu" I whispered. And dragged my rain soaked ass toward the cabin.
"No. But I am the idiot who saw you steal a pregnancy test from that convenience store yesterday during food run. God, Baby, please tell you used a fucking condom when you fucked a guy you met in a dirty stinky club!"
The rag fell out of my hand. I watched it sink into the mud.
One night. That's all it was. One stupid, reckless night.
Linda crouched down next to me. Her voice tight "Emilia. You used a condom, right?"
"No." I stood up too fast. The world spun. Everything fucking spun. "But it's just stress. Or food poisoning. Or—"
"Or the baby of the guy whose name you won't say growing in belly" Linda completed. "How could you not have used a fucking condoms?! Teenagers know to use a condom. You are not a teenager, Emilia. You are twenty-one!" She screamed at me.
Thunder cracked. I jumped instinctively. "Not pregnant" I whispered.
Luca's face flashed in my head. His hands on my hips. His laugh when I messed up his belt. "Amateur," he'd whispered.
I pushed past Linda. "We need to check the perimeter."
"Emi—"
"I said no!"
I screamed it. Screamed at my best friend who had left everything to save me.
She just stood there. Rain falling between us.
I saw something in her eyes. Worry. Fear. Love. All mixed together.
And for one second, I wanted to tell her everything. That I was terrified. That I couldn't stop thinking about a boy I barely knew. That my stomach hurt and my heart hurt and I didn't know what was happening to me. I wanted to admit that I might be pregnant.
But I didn't say any of that because Linda, more than anyone in my world, knew what Marchetti men do to pregnant girls who wasn't carrying their own.
Paolo's wife was a good example.
I turned around and walked back inside.
The cabin door slammed. I pressed my forehead to the damp wall. Mold and rot filled my nose. My hand drifted down to my stomach.
"I'm not pregnant," I whispered. "I'm not pregnant. I'm not pregnant."
I said it over and over until the words stopped meaning anything.