Hothouse

The faint smell of rubber lingered in the air. The low red glow rested upon my face as I sat in the intersection, tapping my fingers against the wheel. Every possibility of tonight raced through my head. I had no idea which outcome would be victorious.

Warning the younger generation about the self-destructive dangers of being in a relationship is like walking through a dense forest at night. At first, the shadows seem harmless, and the intertwining branches offer a sense of security. But as you go deeper, you realize the path is not always clear, and the darkness can conceal unseen dangers. There may be thorns disguised as flowers, pitfalls hidden beneath fallen leaves, and creatures lurking in the shadows. Each step forward is a gamble, and the closer you get, the more vulnerable you become to the unknown perils that lie ahead.

It is akin to cautioning a child not to press a giant red button. Despite the admonition, the allure of the button’s glowing, vibrant presence captivates them. They sit before it, contemplating the consequences, but the temptation eventually overwhelms them. Once the button is pressed, the irreversible countdown begins, and there’s no turning back.

As the light flicked green, my fingers tightened around the rusted steering wheel, and my foot slammed onto the floorboard, leaving a trail of dust in my wake. My vision blurred, and my head spun, but I persisted, pushing forward despite the haze of uncertainty.

40 in a 35.

My anger consistently overpowered me; I struggled to control my emotions, especially after a drink or two. In our small town, girls were cautioned about “Alcoholic Ashton.” Martha was the first to see past small-town tittle-tattle.

55 in a 35.

The lingering taste of stale whiskey clung to my shaky breath, moments of regret replaying in my head. I gripped the wheel harder, red knuckles turning to white, tears forming at the brink of my eyes.

60 in a 35.

Martha’s image appears faintly in my rearview mirror, her sunset eyes locking onto mine with piercing intensity. Her subtle smile, once capable of instantly melting my heart, now evokes a mix of longing and apprehension. I refuse to tear my gaze away from her, fearing that if I blink, she’ll disappear.

80 in a 35.

Red and blue lights pierce through the image of Martha, followed by the distant wail of the siren. “Shit,” I mutter quietly as I ease off the accelerator, gradually applying pressure to the brake until I’m within the speed limit.

0 in a 35.

I release my grip on the steering wheel, feeling a sense of resignation as I wait for the officer to approach. Glancing once more in the rearview mirror, Martha’s presence is replaced by that of a tall, slender officer. Rolling down my window, I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Son, do you realize how fast you were going?” He spoke, his words laced with the thickest accent I’d ever heard in our town.

I tear my eyes away from the white and yellow lines of the road and meet eyes with Old-Timer Casey Turner. The only person from Omaha to have worked in our county’s police force for forty years. Everyone knew “Old-Timer,” but not the way I did.

I took a deep breath, “Look, I know I was way over the limit but I swear there’s-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Ash. This is the third time I’ve pulled you over for going way over the speed limit. There’s got to be some sort of conseq—” his eyes landed on the box in the passenger seat, stopping himself mid-sentence.

“Son, what the hell is that?”

I flinch at his words, and for the first time since I left the checkout line at Walgreens, I look to my passenger seat. The pink and white colors of the box scream at me as I look. I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with it again until I was back home to Martha. I returned my focus to Casey as he looked at me with disappointment and shock.

“Dad, I…” I trailed off, not knowing what I was going to say. How do you tell your dad you’ve possibly knocked up a woman at nineteen years old? I look away from him, fearing the harsh words, or the lecture that was soon to come from him. I pushed the red button, I was waiting for self-destruct.

“Go.” Casey stated firmly.

I looked at him with surprise, why was he letting me off so easily? I stayed still, not believing I had heard him let me leave with no repercussions. When a minute had elapsed with neither of us speaking, he spoke again.

“Go before I change my mind. I don’t want to hear the excuse. Go see Martha, without fucking speeding. Figure your shit out, and then call your mother.” He got up without another word and walked back to his car.

35 in a 35.

I dared to look back at where Martha once was, but my hopes were diminished when all I saw was the darkening roads behind me. Martha wasn’t here, she never was. She was at home waiting for me.

The pink and orange clouds had long faded to black as I pulled into Martha’s apartment complex. Of course, I knew the way upstairs like the back of my hand, I could make it up there blindfolded if need be. But still, I sat in my car, box in hand, not wanting to move, paralyzed temporarily until my heart and brain would communicate enough to muster up the nerve to get up.

Martha and I rarely fought, and if we ever did it was over within the evening. We never went to bed angry with each other. But today, today was different. I felt like an idiot when Martha told me she was late. I assumed she meant for plans, maybe she was going to Carly’s or work. How was I supposed to know what she meant? The fear quickly anchored itself in my chest.

The worst part? We had been drinking. We never did. At least, we never used to. Just as my name followed my attitude, I couldn’t handle the news she was possibly giving me. Tongue-tied words shouted at one another; it wasn’t her fault, but I couldn’t seem to grasp that thought at the moment.

She tried comforting me, she wanted, needed, me to calm down. But when her clammy anxious hands met with my hot skin, I grimaced. I shoved her off me too hard. I instantly regretted it. The sadness quickly flooded her being, and her entire body language shifted. Regret consumed me, and then the anger set in. My fist connected with the wall beside me, without even thinking.

Replaying these moments in my head, I stood in front of Martha’s door. I didn’t even remember the walk upstairs. My head tingling, heart pounding, hands shaking, I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I turned the doorknob; it wasn’t locked.

I slowly walked inside the room and saw Martha sitting on the couch, forlorn, looking out onto the road through her wide window. I shut the door behind me. The lock clicking shook Martha out of her daze.

“Hey,” she spoke softly.

Her puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks made my chest hurt. I took a step towards her, not knowing where a new boundary would be drawn.

“Hi,” was all I could muster in response. She offered a small smile.

Another step.

I couldn’t find the courage to smile back. She should be angry with me. She should be yelling and throwing things at me. She should be kicking me out, telling me I’m on my own, not welcoming me back into the same place I hurt her in, not speaking calmly and smiling at me. I looked down at the box in my hands, her gaze following mine.

Another step.

“I– uh, I got the ones you asked for,” I said slowly, stuttering over my words. Two lines. Two lines would determine the rest of our lives.

I looked at her again, her eyes still locked on the box in my hands. Neither of us could find exactly the right words to say to one another, the air too thick with the tension suffocating the both of us. She slowly stood up straight.

Another step.

Our eyes locked with one another. I set the box on the table beside me, only two steps away from Martha. She seemed welcoming, not resenting me for what I had done. She closed the gap between us. As I looked into her auburn sunset eyes and held her hands of satin and silk, I couldn’t find the words to tell her I wasn’t ready, that we weren’t ready.

Martha took a deep breath, one she had been holding in since the moment I left for the store. She reached out slowly and took hold of the box with shaky hands. Our eyes met one last time before she walked past me to the bathroom. She paused and looked back at me.

I smiled finally, “I’m here, always.”

She sighed and smiled back. She walked through the door and closed it behind her.

It was 9:38 p.m. when she locked herself in the bathroom and prayed. I waited on the couch, leg bouncing with nerves, hands folded on my knee. With my head down, I prayed to myself.

I was never good at taking tests in high school, but this was different. I wasn’t even taking this damn test and I was still a nervous wreck. There are moments in life when no amount of preparations can be made to prepare you for them.

What about this? There’s no right or wrong response, just how you react and handle the moment. Martha and I were nowhere near ready for a child. We were too young, not financially stable enough. Hell, we weren’t even married.

What would the town think? It wouldn’t be long before everyone knew. Word in a small town travels faster than a wildfire in California. I’m sure Vinnie from Walgreens has already told half the town that I was there to buy a fucking pregnancy test. I shouldn’t care, Martha shouldn’t care. Regardless of all of that, was I ready to be a father? To have that responsibility? No. But, how do I tell Martha that?

The lock clicked on the bathroom door. My head snapped upright and met my eyes with Martha. With shaking hands, she held that little plastic stick but refused to look at it. I stood and walked to her. She seemed paralyzed with fear. My arms instinctively wrapped around her, and a tear rolled down my cheek. I didn’t want her to see the fear in me. I tried to stay strong for her, but all I ever seemed to do lately was let her down.

Martha let out a shaky breath and spoke into my chest, “Ashton, I don’t know if I can do this, we’re not ready,” she said as she looked at the box in her hand. I knew she was right, but she was the first to acknowledge the weight of the situation aloud.

I moved my arm from around her and cupped her face with my hand. I looked into her crystallizing eyes and tried to be as reassuring as possible, wanting to put her at ease. “Hey, It’s going to be okay. Whatever the outcome, we will figure this out. I will do whatever I need to for this to work no matter the outcome.” Tears streamed down her face, and I tried to wipe them away.

“Ashton,” her breathing became more rapid and sharp, “what if—”

“Hey it’s okay. We’ll get through it, together. Okay?”

She closed her eyes and let her breathing slow again. I was panicking. The longer we stood and waited, the longer we knew for sure what exactly was to become of our future.

It’s like waiting for the ticking bomb to finally go off, except it has no timer. You wait, and wait, and wait, never knowing when the final moment is before everything changes.

“Will it make you feel better if we look together?” I asked her. She nodded her head, and we both held our breath.

This was it, this was the moment. I reached for her hands. The cool plastic made contact with my skin. She nodded at me and we both turned our heads and lifted our hands. The pink cap was the first thing I noticed, followed by the white backing. We both slowly turned the pregnancy test over and looked at how many lines appeared.

One. One line, and a very faint second line. Martha looked up at me, tears in her eyes again.

“What does the faint line mean?” I asked her. My heart picked up even more speed. Was she pregnant? I pulled away from her and walked into the bathroom. The other two tests were laid out in their packaging on the counter. The box was discarded in the small trash can kept under the sink. I took hold of the box and turned it over to read the guide.

Martha followed quickly behind me, hand over her chest, her breath rapid. I looked at her before reading, trying my best to reassure her. I looked back at the box and read aloud. “One line is the result of not being pregnant. Two pink lines are a pregnant result.” I dropped the box onto the counter.

Martha was pregnant.

With wide eyes and a stiffened body, Martha didn’t say a word. There were no right words to say in a moment like this. The world seemed to pause in orbit, waiting for a meteor to collide and bring it back into motion, back to reality. Martha seemed to stir to life within an instant, instinct kicking in.

She gripped the pregnancy test in her hand tighter and rushed to our room. I followed after her, “Martha? What are you doing?” I asked her.

She didn’t say anything. She grabbed a large duffel bag from underneath our bed. It was full, already packed.

“I’m going to my mom’s,” was all she said. She pulled the strap over her head and onto her shoulder and started to move towards the door. I blocked her way.

“What?” I asked in shock.

“Ashton, I can’t do this, we cannot do this. There’s no way to make this work like you claim. I know you only have good intentions, but I need to go see my mom and figure out what the fuck to do,” her tear-filled pleading eyes met mine, “please.” I searched her eyes for any answers, but there were none. We were both clueless.

I stepped out of the way. She brushed past me softly and walked to the front door. She knew she was going to leave to her mom’s no matter what. She packed while I was gone. She glanced behind her at me one last time before opening the front door and walking out. She shut the door softly behind her, leaving me in a room all alone. Just as clueless as I was at the beginning of tonight.