Chapter 13: The diner's flickering neon casts sickly light on Jeremy's smug face as he leans across the table, his fingers brushing Cass's wrist possessively—when she recoils, he chuckles and says 'Don't worry, darlin', I know how to handle damaged goods.' The words hang between them like a dare, her knuckles whitening around the steak knife.
The dress was a weapon. Her mother had laid it out on Cass’s bed like a challenge: a too-tight sheath of synthetic navy blue with a neckline that plunged and a hem that rode up her thighs. “It’s what girls wear,” Martha had said, avoiding her eyes. It felt less like clothing and more like a costume for a part she’d never auditioned for.
The Rusty Spoon was warm, thick with the smell of fryer oil and coffee and the low murmur of a dozen conversations that died the second she walked in. Eyes. Everywhere. Old Man Higgins in his usual booth paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Two women from the church auxiliary committee swiveled their heads in perfect unison. Cass felt the dress like a beacon, announcing her shameful return and her parents’ desperate bargain.
Jeremy Shepard was already in a booth by the window, nursing a Coke. He was handsome in a bland, clean-shaven way, his hair neatly parted. He stood up too quickly when he saw her, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“Cassidy. You look… different,” he said, his gaze doing a quick, clinical sweep from her head to her toes. He meant the dress. He meant her.
“Jeremy.” She slid into the booth, tugging futilely at the hem. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Sure, sure.” He sat back down, signaling to Darlene, the waitress. “Mom said you were back. Said you’d had some trouble in the city.”
The opening volley. Darlene came over, her expression unreadable. “Coffee,” Cass said. “Black.”
“I’ll have a slice of the peach pie, Darlene. Heard it’s good tonight,” Jeremy said, flashing a practiced smile. When Darlene left, he leaned forward. “So. New York. Bet that was something.”
“It was something.”
“I almost moved to Dallas for the co-op training. But I figured, why chase a bigger pond when you’re a decent-sized fish right here?” He chuckled at his own metaphor. “Started on the ground floor, but my supervisor says I’ve got a real knack for the logistical side. Might be looking at a foreman spot by spring.”
“That’s great,” Cass said, her voice flat. Her coffee arrived. She wrapped her hands around the mug, seeking its solid heat.
“It’s steady work. Important work. Not like some jobs.” He took a sip of his Coke. “Speaking of, heard your dad’s hired hand is back. Wade Collins.”
Her fingers tightened on the mug. “He is.”
“My dad always said that was a shame, what happened. Waste of a good worker.” Jeremy shook his head, a performative sigh. “Course, once a man’s been inside, it marks him. You can’t trust that kind of temper.”
The air in the diner grew thick. Cass could feel the eyes on her back, ears straining. This was the real currency here: gossip served with pie.
“What exactly do you think you know about it?” she asked, her tone dangerously calm.
Jeremy shrugged, enjoying his audience. “What everyone knows. Got in a fight over in Lubbock. Put two guys in the hospital. Something with a pool cue? Manslaughter, wasn’t it? Or maybe it was aggravated assault. Something with a ‘G’. He did his time, anyway. Four years, I think.”
The details were wrong. Vague and cruel. Cass saw the attic room, the quiet way Wade moved, the careful control he kept over every gesture. She saw the raw grief in his eyes when he’d spoken of his uncle. This caricature Jeremy painted wasn’t a man; it was a cautionary tale for bored people in diners.
“He was nineteen,” Cass said, her voice low but clear. “It was a bar fight. One guy pulled a knife. Wade disarmed him. The other guy fell and hit his head. He served two years for aggravated assault, not four. He was protecting a friend.”
Jeremy’s smirk faltered for a second, surprised by her precision. Then it returned, wider. “Well, look at you. Got all the facts. He tell you that himself? While you were up in that attic?”
The implication hung in the air, greasy and foul. Heat flooded Cass’s face. The nausea, a constant companion for days, surged, then vanished, burned away by a cleaner, sharper fire.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, each word a chip of ice.
“Seems I do.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that was somehow worse than his bragging. “Listen, Cassidy. You and me, we’re the practical ones. We understand how things work here. You’ve had your… adventures. I’ve got a future. We could be good for each other. My mom likes you. Your mom likes me.” He reached under the table and his hand landed on her thigh, high up, his fingers pressing into the thin fabric of the dress. “We could skip the pie. I’ve got my truck outside. We could go somewhere quiet. You could show me what you learned up there in that city.”
His touch was like a live wire. Her whole body recoiled, but his grip tightened, pinning her to the vinyl seat.
“Get your hand off me,” she whispered, the fury making her vision tunnel.
He just smiled, a lazy, entitled smile. He leaned closer, his breath smelling of Coke and spearmint gum. “Or what? You gonna write a story about it?” His other hand made a crude, explicit gesture under the table. “Why don’t you be nice and come with me? I heard you city girls know how to—”
She didn’t think.
Her body moved. The heavy ceramic coffee mug was still in her hand. She slammed it down on the Formica table, not at him, but with enough force to make the saucer jump and crack, a sound like a gunshot in the hushed diner. Brown liquid sloshed over the side.
Jeremy jerked back, startled, his grip loosening.
“I said,” Cass hissed, the words vibrating with a rage she didn’t know she owned, “get your fucking hand off me.”
For a split second, he looked shocked. Then his face darkened with humiliation. He’d been shown up. In front of everyone. His hand shot out again, not to grope, but to grab her wrist, his fingers digging in like a vise. “You stuck-up bitch. You think you’re too good for this? For me? You’re nothing. You’re a washed-up slut who came crawling back.”
She yanked her arm, but he held tight, starting to pull her from the booth. Panic, cold and pure, flashed through her. Then it was gone, replaced by a single, crystalline instinct.
She stopped resisting. Let him pull her halfway up.
Then she drove her knee, hard and precise, straight up between his legs.
It wasn’t a ladylike tap. It was the full, pent-up force of every rotten thing: the failed escape to New York, the silent house, the sickness, her father’s ultimatum, the ugly dress, the lies about Wade. It was all in that one, sharp, upward thrust.
Jeremy’s eyes bulged. A strangled, high-pitched sound, like a teakettle screaming, escaped his lips. His grip vanished. He crumpled forward onto the table, knocking over his Coke, his body seizing into a tight, quivering ball of agony.
The diner was utterly silent. Frozen. Darlene stood by the pie case, a dishrag dangling from her hand. Old Man Higgins’s jaw was slack.
Cass didn’t wait. She stumbled out of the booth, her legs trembling. The torn seam under the arm of the dress gave way with a sickening rrriip. She didn’t care. She walked, fast and unsteady, past the staring faces, toward the door.
Jeremy’s wheezing voice followed her. “You… crazy… cunt…”
The word bounced off the linoleum. She hit the push bar on the door and stumbled out into the biting night air. It was a slap. A relief. She started to run, the stupid, tight dress constricting her stride, one heel catching on a crack in the sidewalk. She kicked both shoes off, leaving them on the pavement, and ran in her stocking feet down the dark, empty main street toward the road that led home.
The cold asphalt stung. Gravel bit through the thin nylon. She ran until a stitch tore at her side and she had to stop, bent double, gasping for breath that came in ragged, smoky plumes. The adrenaline bled away, leaving her shaking, the torn dress flapping in the icy wind.
She had nowhere to go.
The house was a tribunal. The diner was a crime scene. The town was a witness.
A pair of headlights appeared at the far end of the road, moving slowly. Panic jolted her again. She scrambled off the asphalt, into the skeletal ditch weeds, crouching down as the car—Jeremy’s truck? Her father’s?—approached. It passed, its tires humming on the pavement, its taillights glowing like angry eyes in the dark.
Alone again, she hugged herself. The nausea returned, a rolling wave that made her spit bile into the frozen grass. She looked back toward the distant, faint glow of the diner’s sign. Then she looked down the long, dark road toward the farm.
And she saw, far off across the black fields, a single, steady yellow light. The porch light of the barn.ran
The porch light of the barn was a faint, impossible star in the blackness. It meant he was still working. It meant a space that was his, not theirs. A destination. She could go there. The thought was a fragile warmth in her chest, a tiny counterpoint to the shivering and the sour taste of vomit in her mouth. She took a step toward the fence line, the frozen grass crunching under her stockings.
She suddenly felt a slight cramping in her stomach, a deep, internal twist.
Shit, maybe her cycle? Yeah, it was probably due by now. She had lost count in the blur of sickness and dread. She took another step, and a wave of dizziness forced her to pause, bracing her hands on her knees. Then, suddenly, she felt a cold wetness in between her legs, soaking through her underwear and onto the ruined dress.
Did she just wet herself? The shame was instant and hot. She touched the damp, freezing fabric.
Her hand came back up, dark and slick in the weak moonlight. Full of blood. A lot of blood.
What?
She frantically looked around, but there was no one near, just the vast, indifferent night. The cramping deepened, a hollow, pulling ache. She suddenly felt dizzy again, the world tilting on its axis, and she felt a fresh, warm trickle snake down the inside of her thigh. Blood dripping down her legs.
She ran.
Not toward the barn light. Not toward the house. She turned and ran in the opposite direction, back toward town, her mind a white scream. The small county hospital was down Sycamore Street. She ran, the torn dress clinging, the cold air scalding her lungs. She ran past dark houses, her stocking feet slapping the pavement, going numb.
It took her a while, but she made it, panting, stumbling up the concrete steps to the ER entrance. The automatic doors hissed open to blinding fluorescent light and the smell of bleach and stale coffee. It was quiet, just the murmur of a TV mounted in the corner.
A nurse looked up from her newspaper at the desk, her expression bored. “Can I help you?”
Cassidy stood in the center of the dingy lobby, shaking, her arms wrapped around herself. The nurse’s eyes traveled down from her wild hair, over the torn, stained dress, to her bare, bloody legs.
“What brings you to the emergency room tonight?” the nurse asked in a disinterested tone, already looking back at her crossword.
Cassidy held up her bloodied hand, the palm gleaming red under the lights. “Help me,” she whispered, the words cracking. “I don’t know what’s happening…”
The nurse jumped up, her chair rolling back and hitting the wall. “Jesus. Okay. Okay, hon, come with me right now.” The professional apathy vanished, replaced by a sharp, urgent efficiency. She came around the desk and took Cass by the elbow, her grip firm. “Let’s get you back. Can you walk? Just lean on me.”
They took her straight through triage, past a man holding a towel to his hand, into a curtained bay. Tears welled in Cass’s eyes because she didn’t know what was going on, and she was so scared, and the cramping was a constant, grinding presence. They helped her into a gown, the white cloth immediately threatening shame. The blood was brighter against it.
They took blood work from her arm, the vial filling dark and fast. A tech handed her a plastic cup. “We need a urine sample, honey. Do you think you can?”
She could. In the tiny bathroom, she saw the blood going into the cup, swirling in the yellow stream. This was more than period blood. It was bright red and flowing, an unstoppable leak from a source she didn’t understand. She left the cup on the sink and shuffled back to the bed, feeling emptier and lighter with every step.
Eventually, a doctor in a rumpled lab coat pushed the curtain aside and came to talk to her. He sat on the bed next to her, the vinyl crunching under his weight. She recognized him. Dr. Evans. She’d known him for almost her whole life; he was the local doctor and pediatrician who’d given her shots and once stitched her chin when she fell off her bike.
He laid down his clipboard and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He looked tired. “Cassidy McAllister,” he said. “Were you aware that you were pregnant?”
The words didn’t land. They floated in the antiseptic air between them. Cassidy’s eyes widened, her brain scrambling to parse the sentence. Pregnant?
“Yes,” Dr. Evans said gently, watching her face crumble. “You are pregnant. Your HCG levels confirm it. It’s hard to get a good estimate since we haven’t done an ultrasound yet, but based on the hormone levels, I’d estimate around five to eight weeks.”
Yes. That made sense. A cold, precise clarity locked into place. It was about eight weeks ago that Wade fucked her in the back of the truck bed, the night everything changed. The math was irrefutable.
“The bleeding you’re experiencing is very significant,” Dr. Evans continued, his voice low and steady. “It’s likely a condition called placenta previa. That’s where the placenta implants very low in the uterus, covering the cervix. It can cause painless, sudden bleeding like this. It’s very serious, Cassidy.”
“Is it… is the baby…” She couldn’t finish.
“We don’t know yet. The bleeding is a major threat. The next steps are an ultrasound to see exactly what’s happening, and then we’ll likely need to admit you. You’ll need complete bed rest. Possibly a blood transfusion. If the bleeding doesn’t stop…” He trailed off, but the meaning was clear. “We need to call your parents. You’re going to be here for a while.”
He patted her knee and stood, the curtain swishing shut behind him. Cassidy stared at the ceiling tiles, a grid of tiny holes. A distant beep echoed from another bay. Pregnant. The word echoed, a bomb that had already detonated inside her, and she was only now feeling the shockwave.Her parents were going to kill he
The word echoed, a bomb that had already detonated inside her, and she was only now feeling the shockwave. Her parents were going to kill her. They were going to take one look at her, at this mess, and finally have the proof they needed that she was irrevocably ruined. A fresh, hot gush between her legs made her gasp. “Nurse!” The cry was thin, strangled.
The curtain whipped back. It was a different nurse, younger, with kind eyes. “Sweetheart, what is it?”
“Please,” Cass choked out, the sobs breaking through now, hitching her breath. “When they call… don’t call my parents. Please. You can’t call them.”
The nurse’s expression softened with a pity that was almost worse than scorn. “Honey, you’re a minor adult, but we need a contact. You’re being admitted.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Cass grabbed the woman’s scrubs, her bloody fingers leaving faint smears. “You can’t tell them. Please. I’m begging you.”
“Let me see what I can do,” the nurse said, gently prying Cass’s hand loose. She disappeared.
Cass lay there, listening to the sounds of the ER, each beep and distant voice a judgment. She stared at a water stain on the ceiling tile, shaped like a ragged continent. She was mapping its coastline when the nurse returned, holding a cordless phone.
“I called the number you gave for your parents,” the nurse said, her voice careful. “A young man answered. Your brother, Max? He said your folks had driven over to the Shepards’ place. Something about an incident at the diner.”
Cass closed her eyes. Of course.
“He passed the phone to a Wade Collins,” the nurse continued. “Said he was right there. I told him you were at Lubbock General. That you’d been admitted. He said he’s on his way.”
Cassidy’s lip began to tremble. She felt very young and small at that moment, smaller than the stain on the ceiling. The nurse hadn’t explained anything over the phone, just that Cassidy was in the hospital. What was he thinking? What was he imagining?
“Let’s get you upstairs,” the nurse said quietly.
They moved her to a room on the maternity floor, a cruel irony that wasn’t lost on her. The walls were a soft peach. It was quieter. An ultrasound machine was wheeled in by a technician with a serene smile. “This will be cold,” she said, squirting clear gel on Cass’s still-flat abdomen.
Cass turned her head away, staring at the drawn blinds. She couldn’t look at the screen. The technician moved the wand, the pressure deep and searching. The machine made soft, clicking whooshes. Cass held her breath.
“Okay,” the tech murmured, more to herself. “There we are. I see the gestational sac. Good, good.” A pause. More clicking. “And there’s your little one. Heartbeat is nice and strong. Measuring right at seven weeks.”
A heartbeat. Cass’s head snapped toward the screen. A grainy, grey, shifting landscape. And in the center, a tiny, blinking pulse of light. A frantic, rhythmic flicker. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. It was the most terrifying and beautiful sound she had ever heard.
“The placenta is covering the cervix, just as Dr. Evans suspected,” the tech said, her finger tracing a shape on the monitor. “That’s the source of the bleed. It’s called placenta previa. It’s very serious. You’ll need to be on strict bed rest. Absolutely no lifting, no strain. But with intervention, and if the placenta migrates as you grow, this baby can be perfectly healthy.”
The door to her room burst open. Wade stood there, breathing hard. He still wore his work coat, smelling of cold air and hay. He’d lost his hat. His hair was wild, his eyes scanning the room and finding her, wide with a fear she’d never seen in him before.
The tech finished, wiped the gel away, and quietly left them alone.
Wade was at her side in two strides. He didn’t touch her at first, just stood over the bed, his gaze taking in the IV in her hand, the hospital gown, her tear-streaked face. “Cass. Jesus. What’s wrong? What happened?” His voice was rough, scraped raw.
She started crying again, silent tears that just leaked out, because she was so tired and so scared and the blinking light was seared into her mind. He reached for her hand, his own calloused and trembling slightly. He held it between both of his, warming her cold fingers. “Talk to me. Please. Are you hurt? Was it Jeremy? Did he—”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not that.”
“Then what? You’re scaring the hell out of me.”
She opened her mouth, but the words dissolved. Pregnant. Baby. Yours. They were monumental, universe-altering words, and she had no idea how to say them. She was afraid of what he would say, how he would react, if he would leave her. Did he even want kids? He’d never mentioned it. He’d mentioned a prison cot, a dead uncle, a quiet life of work. Not this.
Dr. Evans chose that moment to walk in, his lab coat rustling. He glanced at their joined hands, then at Cass. “Cassidy. We have your full results. Is it alright if I speak in front of…?”
She nodded, her throat too tight for speech.
“Alright.” The doctor leaned against the wall, his posture weary but direct. “The ultrasound confirmed a viable intrauterine pregnancy at seven weeks gestation. The bleeding is due to a complete placenta previa. It’s a high-risk situation. You’ll need total pelvic rest—no intercourse, no strenuous activity—and complete bed rest for the foreseeable future. We’re going to keep you here for at least forty-eight hours to monitor the bleeding. If it stops, you can go home, but the bed rest is non-negotiable. If it doesn’t stop, or if it becomes heavier, we’re looking at a longer admission, possibly surgery, and a significant risk of preterm delivery.”
The room was absolutely silent. Cass watched Wade’s face.
His expression went utterly blank. The worry vanished, replaced by a sheer, uncomprehending stillness. His hand went slack around hers. He stared at the doctor, then slowly, his gaze traveled down to her abdomen, hidden under the thin blanket. Shock. Pure, unadulterated shock.
Then his eyes found hers. The silence stretched, thin and fragile.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. His breath let out in a slow, controlled stream. And then, something else flickered in his eyes, breaking through the shock like dawn. A bewildered, tentative awe. His grip on her hand tightened again, not in fear, but in something like anchorage. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, just at the corners. It wasn’t joy, not yet, but the profound, staggering beginning of it.
“A baby?” he finally said, the word sounding foreign in his mouth.
Cass could only nod, fresh tears spilling over.
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a hard, warm kiss to her knuckles. He closed his eyes for a second, a thousand emotions crossing his features. When he opened them, the joy was there, bright and fierce, but it was instantly clouded by a new, practical fear. He looked from her to the doctor, his mind clearly racing ahead.
“Bed rest,” Wade repeated, the farmer in him latching onto the instruction. “At home. At her home.” He said it like a curse. The reality of it settled over them both, colder than the hospital sheets. Her parents’ reaction. The shame. The logistics. How they would support a baby when she had twenty-five dollars and a rented attic room, and he had a cot in a toolshed.
The joy didn’t vanish, but it was suddenly flanked by sheer, daunting terror.