"It's not Adrian," I say confidently. "He's not dead."
"Ma'am, I'm sure this must be shocking for you-"
"He can't be dead," I repeat.
"If you would just come down to the precinct with me and identify the-"
"Fine," I spit. I'm being catty, but only because I know she's wrong. They made a mistake somewhere along the way. Adrian isn't dead; he's snoring and drooling on some cheap, scratchy motel bed. Or maybe he didn't even make it that far. Maybe he's curled up in the nearest ditch, behind a godforsaken hedge, in someone's backyard. He'll be back in the morning, repentant as always. I don't know what I'll do then, but I know one thing for sure.
Adrian. Isn't. Dead.
She drives me to the station. It takes exactly thirteen minutes. I watch every single one of those minutes tick past on the clock set in her dash. My knee is bouncing-the hurt one, not the good one-which is strange. I tell myself I'm just tired. It's late and I'm exhausted in the way that only repeating the same cycle again and again can exhaust you.
"I should prepare you," the cop tells me as she walks me through the precinct to a claustrophobic stairwell in the back. "The Accident resulted in a head-on collision that toppled both cars and ignited an explosion. The top half of his body was burned pretty badly."
We go down and enter the morgue. It's freezing cold in here. I wrap my arms around myself, teeth chattering. She's still talking, but I'm barely hearing her. I'm too busy smelling.
I've always been good with smells. But you don't have to be good to recognize the charcoal stench of burned flesh. It clings to the walls of this place. Makes me want to hurl.
"Prepare yourself, ma'am. We'll do this as fast as we can." Then she's pulling the blue sheet off the form stretched across the metal table.
My stomach turns, but it's not a personal kind of horror. It's the human instinct to recoil from something awful, something rotten, something wrong.
But after the initial wave of nausea passes, I can breathe again. Whoever this poor, barbecued soul on the table is, he's not my Adrian.
"Like I was trying to tell you, he can't be-"
The words die on my lips when I see the corpse's hand.
The ring on one finger, to be specific.
It's gold and glistening bright under the cold fluorescent lights overhead. Like it's mocking me. Winking at me one more time from beyond the grave. I touch my cheek, and even though it stings because the wound is still fresh, I let my touch linger. The same smooth curve of the metal is embedded in my face.
I have two choices now, I realize. I can either scream into the void...
Or I can fall into it.
I choose the latter. At least that one comes with blissful oblivion.
3
JUNE
"W-where am I?"
"You're in the hospital, ma'am." The voice is female, bright, and faux-cheery in a briskly professional sort of way. "You fainted."
I honestly kind of wish I was disoriented. But as soon as she says that, I remember exactly where I was when I passed out. I remember exactly what I was doing. Or meant to be doing, anyway. I'm not sure I properly identified my boyfriend's corpse before I hit the ground, though I doubt it matters much. I'm assuming that even New York's finest can put those pieces together.
"I want to go home," I whisper.
"The doctor has to clear you first, darling," the voice explains. "He needs to make sure your little fall didn't hurt the baby."
I blink and crack one eye open. Maybe I am disoriented, after all. "What baby?"
"Your baby, dear," the nurse says. Her face hangs over me like a gigantic sun I want to run from.
"I don't have a baby."
Her eyes go wide. They're a pretty brown, aged prematurely with decades of sad stories passing through her ward. "Oh, dear... You didn't know."
"Didn't know what?"
"I'm so sorry, darling. We thought you knew," she says, her eyes softening instantly. Real sympathy, not the engineered kind. "You're pregnant."
4
JUNE
I'm pregnant.
I'm pregnant at a funeral.
I'm pregnant at my baby's father's funeral.
"Hello."
A startled gasp escapes my lips. I've been jumpy for days now. You'd think that being in a crowded funeral hall would eliminate that feeling for a few hours, but apparently not.
"I'm sorry," the man who spoke says from behind a smile that's veering uncomfortably close to creepy. I frown, vaguely recognizing his spindly hunch and his distinctive beaked nose. I'm pretty sure I've been creeped out by that smile before. "I scared you."
"No, it's okay. I'm just... on edge."
"Of course. This can't be easy for you."
He's the first person to speak to me in twenty minutes, since Adrian's old work colleagues all left. It was nice of them to show up, but it made me sad to realize that they came out of a sense of obligation rather than any real affection or lasting friendship.
"We've met before, haven't we?" I ask, hoping he's not offended by the fact that I can't really remember him.
He smells of stale cigarettes and strong mint gum that's failing to cover up the tobacco stench. "Yes, we have. Adrian introduced us at his last recital."
I raise my eyebrows. "Adrian hasn't-hadn't-performed in over two years."
"Was it that long ago?" the man muses, still not volunteering his name. "I remember it like it was yesterday."
I wish I could say the same. But that's one of the good memories, so of course it's all hazy and indistinct. Even the image in my mind's eye of his fingers gliding over the piano keys looks like a thousand photographs laid on top of one another.
My eyes glide to the piano forte looming in the corner behind a framed picture of Adrian. Floral arrangements bloom on both sides. Understated, tasteful, elegant-Adrian would've fucking hated them.
Too damn fancy. These people probably think I'm trying to impress them.
