The Trap (Trapped Prequel)

Chapter 2

Mitch

Pregnant.

The more the word echoes in my head, the less sense it makes, and the less right it sounds. And when I picture the word in my mind, it just looks plain wrong.  So I reject it. The meaning. The implication. Everything.

Paige may as well be on the other side of the country because that’s how removed I feel from this whole situation. My body might be here but my mind is…not.

 I don’t even realize I’m shaking my head—denial the only thread I’ve got to hang on to—until Paige counters by nodding just as emphatically. “I am, Mitch. I’m pregnant,” she says, her voice faint and raw, while I grapple with the reality of it.

The pregnancy my girlfriend just dumped in my lap.

This is right about the time the world can stop spinning and I’d gladly jump off. I didn’t sign up for this.

Air. God, I need some fuckin’ air.

I inhale but there isn’t enough oxygen on this earth that can ever make breathing easier ever again.

My vision must have gone hazy because Paige’s face comes back into focus. She looks alone and afraid. But as much as that lost-girl expression makes me want to hold and comfort her, right now there’s nothing I want more than to put as much distance between us as I can.

I put my thoughts into action and stand, taking a couple steps back. Agitated, I run both hands through my hair, resisting the urge to yank the strands out by the roots.

For what feels like an hour, I simply stare down at her.  

“Jesus Christ, Paige,” I finally mutter, before turning and walking over to the kitchen counter. I need the damn thing for support. Elbows locked, I transfer my weight to the heels of my palms braced against the black-and-brown-speckled countertop.  My shoulders are slumped and my head is down.

I’m so in my own head, I’m not even aware of Paige—don’t realize she budged from where she was sitting—until I feel her hand on my shoulder.

 “Talk to me.” Her voice is as soft as her touch.

Do I really have to? That’s what I want to say. But of course I don’t. It’s not as if not talking about it is going make the problem go away. Plus, I want to know how this happened.

Pushing off the counter, I turn and face her. “So this happened the one day I was home during spring break? That one night?” If there’s a note of disbelief in my voice, it’s because she’s on the Pill and we had sex exactly two times on my surprise trip home. At ten the following morning, I was on a return flight back to New York. I was home eighteen hours.

Before that, Paige and I hadn’t had sex since Christmas break. If she’d gotten pregnant back then, she’d be at least six months along, which clearly she isn’t. My gaze drops to her narrow waist, and then lowers to her slim, lightly tanned thighs. If anything, Paige has lost weight since I last saw her.

Did I forget to say she’s on the Pill?

She gives a hesitant nod.

 “But how? You’re on the Pill.” We’d stopped using condoms when she went on birth control halfway through our senior year in high school almost two years ago.

 “Nothing is one hundred percent effective, Mitch. You know that,” she replies as if she’s reading the warning straight off the box. “Women have gotten pregnant on the Pill.”

For crissakes. The last thing I want to hear is that we’ve become some unfortunate statistic.

I let out a heavy sigh and tip my head back, my gaze going to the wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling in the family room.