A group of rowdy tourists push past me, their laughter grating on my frayed nerves, so I hurry to a cab and slide into the sticky vinyl backseat with relief. "Nearest affordable hotel, please," I tell the driver, my voice sounding small and uncertain.
As we merge into traffic, I push away thoughts of my predicament with more mundane and easier issues. Food. I need to eat soon since the nausea has thankfully started to subside, replaced by a gnawing hunger. And maybe some different clothing. Everything I own verges on formal, and it’s way too hot here for that. I’m sure I can pick up something cheap at a charity shop.
A smile almost pulls at my lips as I imagine what Niko would think of that.
Almost.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
My mother always did tell me never to get too comfortable. It’s perhaps the one piece of advice I should have listened to.
The cab pulls up to a weathered motel with a flickering neon sign. It's not much, but it'll do. I pay the driver and haul my bag inside, thankful to be greeted by a blast of overzealous air conditioning.
"Just one night," I tell the bored-looking clerk who barely glances up as he hands me a key.
The room is small and dated, with faded floral wallpaper and a musty smell that makes my nose wrinkle. But it's clean enough, and the bed looks more comfortable than the last one at least. I drop my bag and sink onto the mattress, suddenly exhausted, the lack of sleep last night catching up with me.
My stomach growls, reminding me of my earlier resolve to find food, so I force myself up and head back out for the sake of the baby, if not for myself. Squinting in the bright sunlight, I add sunglasses to the list of things I need to get.
Right now, though, a convenience store across the street catches my eye, and I make my way over. It’s one of those cheap and cheerful places that seems to sell everything.
Inside, I grab a few essentials - bottled water, granola bars, a packaged sandwich with a side of pasta. I even find some clothing basics; t-shirts, leggings and sneakers, and I’m just contemplating a slice of cheesecake in a plastic carton, or if I should get a chocolate bar with a longer shelf life, when I notice a row of cheap, pay-as-you-go phones.
I pause, frozen in the aisle, as a chilling realization crashes over me like a cold wave. My gaze fixates on the prepaid phones displayed on the shelves, an unsettling thought burrowing its way into my consciousness. The iPhone tucked securely in my pocket is tethered to my old life. It’s on Niko’s contract and he has control over it. He pays for it, upgrades it, and with just a word from him I could be cut off, lost in the ether of silence without a means to reach out or be reached. The dread coils within me as I contemplate how tenuous my hold on communication actually is.
A plan forms rapidly amid the panic, and I grab one of the boxes and clutch it like a talisman against the void of isolation. I need to migrate everything—my contacts, my banking apps, my passwords—to another device. It might come at an inconvenient financial cost, but it's one I can't afford to ignore. A necessary expense in this precarious new life where every decision holds weight and consequence and the idea of being utterly alone gnaws at me, a terrifying prospect that sends shivers crawling along my spine.
I linger there longer than I should, wrestling with the fear of change and the prospect of losing that vital lifeline. But as I pay for the phone and my other purchases, there's an odd sense of liberation burgeoning beneath my anxiety.
It's not much, just a scrap of control in a life dominated by uncertainty, but it's something tangible belonging solely to me. There’s both exhilaration and terror bottled in this step towards independence; the thrill of autonomy juxtaposed sharply with the fear of stepping out from under Niko’s whims. From under my mother’s shadow. It’s always been one or the other of them.
Or perhaps I’m just being a bit melodramatic. I've heard pregnancy hormones can have that effect.
Better safe than sorry, though.
Back in my room, I devour the cheese and ham on rye and follow it greedily with the chicken carbonara pasta while setting up the new phone. It feels strange, having a number Niko doesn't know. A small taste of freedom that's both energizing and disquieting.
In the dim silence of the motel room, I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the new phone cradled in my hand. The decision to transfer my contacts isn't as straightforward as it seems. Should I preserve every connection, every bond, every tether to the life that was mine just two short days ago? Or should I sever those ties and let go of the threads that bind me to both cherished memories and haunting regrets? The choice before me feels monumental and my finger hovers over the screen.
In the end, I’m only so brave, so I start with Roisin’s number. That’s an easy choice. She's been by my side through thick and thin, more sister than friend. Her presence in my life is a comforting certainty I refuse to ever lose.
But then there's Niko, the very name conjuring an entire spectrum of emotions—from love, to disappointment, to anger, to longing. He turned his back on me without giving me a chance to prove myself, but I can’t bring myself to do the same. He’s my hus…
But he’s not, is he? He’s not my anything anymore.
Except that’s not true, either. No matter how he feels, he’s the father of my child and despite everything, I still want vindication. Because regardless of his cruel dismissal, I still love him. My feelings haven’t been switched off, just because he believes I’ve betrayed him. I want him to know he’s wrong. I want our son to know his father. I want…
Shaking my head, I realize it doesn’t matter. His number is ingrained in my memory, anyway.
And then there’s Lenka. She represents a different dilemma. She’s my mother, even though I no longer trust her, but despite how each of them have hurt me, I don’t think I can simply erase them like they mean nothing.
As the thoughts swirl through my mind like a storm squall, my old phone intrudes upon my inner turmoil when a message pings into being. Instinctively, my stupid heart lurches up into my throat, adrenaline coursing hot and swift through my veins. For a fleeting moment, hope flares brightly that maybe it's Niko reaching out, offering reassurances that it was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding, even though the rational part of me knows it's unlikely.
And then reality swiftly grounds me when I clutch it with shaking fingers and find it’s only spam cluttering my device with its mundane irrelevance.
I release a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding—a ragged exhalation that carries with it the bitter taste of disappointment.
Somebody slap the stupid girl.
