I do not own Twilight.

Long time, no see. I know … I'm that author. For those of you who are not aware, I'm now self-published! Dusty Innocents & Delinquents took the last year of my life and kept me locked in a closet. Before I start my next one, True Love Way, I wanted to give you a chapter. Thank you for your patience.

Much love to Catherine Jones and Kim Swanson.

Statistics:

In 2013, almost one in six births to 15- to 19-year-olds were to females who already had one or more babies.

Between 1990 and 2010, the teen pregnancy rate declined by 51 percent.

Chapter Eleven

Sleeping with the lingering thoughts of disappointed parents on my mind is impossible. I spend most of the night tossing and turning, in and out of a weak excuse for slumber. As the sun breaks the horizon, illuminating my room in a dark blue color, I give up completely and sit up in bed.

After draining my unbearably full bladder, I follow the scent of brewing coffee to the kitchen and find my dad sitting at the table. His dark eyes momentarily shift in my direction, but disregard me as quickly.

"Hey," I say with a morning thick voice.

Charlie stands up from his chair with his cup of java and walks out the open back door, ignoring me entirely.

"I'm still your daughter," I remind him as he disappears outside.

With a heavy sigh, I tread over to the kitchen window above the sink and pull open the dusty blinds. The sky slowly turns from blue to early morning orange … and I'm fucking pregnant.

My baby's daddy is three doors down with his family, who most likely blame me for devastating their son's life. My ex-boyfriend is out there somewhere, betrayed and crushed. Dani California probably stitched up a voodoo doll that looks just like me, which would explain the oncoming ache in my head. And my dad, the man who loves me more than the world, won't speak to me.

I am carrying another human being inside of my body, but I have never felt more alone.

"Smudge," I say, placing the palm of my hand over the small bump expanding my abdomen, "you better be worth it, kid."

Pushing myself away from the sink, I pour a large mug of coffee and follow Charlie out the back door. I demand his attention. He's zipping up his wetsuit as I step foot on the ocean-spray damp porch. He reaches for his surfboard and turns away from me to search for peace in the waves.

"I know you're mad at me, Dad," I say, sitting in a sun-cracked plastic chair. "But it would be cool if you didn't act like I don't exist."

My father exhales and leans his board against the porch rail. "You shouldn't drink coffee. Caffeine isn't good for the baby."

I lift steaming Folgers to my nose and inhale. "Good to know."

This spawn in my stomach has robbed me of my family and friends, my future, and now my caffeine. Setting my mug down, I cross my arms over my chest and pout. So far, being with child bites.

"I'm not mad at you," Charlie says. He pulls a chair up and takes a seat beside me.

"But you're disappointed," I say, finishing his sentence.

He shakes his head. "You're my girl, Bella. I don't get a lot right, and I hoped you'd learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."

Sand sticks to the bottom of my feet. I wiggle my toes to get it off.

"Your mom is probably looking down on us from Heaven right now, losing her shit," he continues.

The right side of my mouth lifts. "Heaven is all unicorns and pink-puffy clouds. Losing your shit is against the rules. There's no teen pregnancy anger in Heaven, everyone knows that."

Stray hairs fall from Charlie's messy ponytail, and when he laughs, his beard moves. He pats my knee before sliding his arm across my shoulder and pulling me in for a hug.

"Edward's fired, by the way," he says, kissing the top of my head. My dad smells like ocean with an undertone of bud.

"You can't fire the offspring's maker," I say, sitting up straight. "He needs his job for more than Volkswagen parts now."

Dad stands and retrieves his board again; I don't stop him from going. Lifting up my feet, I cross them under my bottom and reach for my coffee. I can't drink it, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the aroma. Look, don't touch—I deserve the punishment.

"Fine," Charlie says, kicking up sand as he walks toward the ocean. "He's rehired."

While I sit on fragile plastic, the sun climbs the sky, blanketing the shore in its warm morning glory. In no time at all, the beach fills up with people here to enjoy the summer day. It's amazing to me that my life has been totally rocked, yet the world goes on as if everything is completely the same.

In a handful of months, there's going to be this little person here that I can keep if I want. He'll be half Cullen, half Swan—all Earth altering.

As my own life-giver disappears between the whitecaps, my heart beats harder against the weight of what real responsibility is. Abortion is out of the question, but adoption is a tangible option, and one Smirks and I should consider. The anger we were met with last night from our parents was warranted, and everything they said is right.

But a part of me wants to keep the little smudge on the ultrasound picture.

The morning quickly passes and my legs fall asleep beneath me. When I start to sweat under unforgiving sunrays, I head back into the house just as the phone rings.

Thinking it's Edward, I'm not disappointed to hear James' voice. "How did it go?"

With the cordless against my ear, I fall onto the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. More sand falls from my toes.

"Esme threw out the fried chicken she'd cooked," I say.

James gasps. "That's bad. Nothing gets between her and Crisco."

"Right?" I sigh. "They were drumsticks too."

"Damn," my girls says. "Did she save any of it for later?"

"Nope. She tossed it all. The mashed potatoes too."

"She's probably so hungry right now," James ponders.

Lifting up the hem of my sleep shirt, I rub my hand back and forth over the life-destroyer. "Do your parents know?"

"Yeah, Edward's mom called my mom late last night. Have you been online today?"

My hand stops rubbing circles over Smudge. "No."

"You should unplug all internet-capable devices in your house. I got your back, Sail, but…"

"Tell me," I say.

"Well, Dani might have started this group on Facebook."

"Yeah?" I urge her to continue.

"And it might be called Bella Swan is a Pregnant Hooker," James says. "I tried to join, but I've been blocked. But don't worry, I reported it."

I fall flat onto the couch and cover my face with one of the throw pillows. Like my dad, it smells like pot. "Great. The secret is out."

"My parents don't want me hanging out with you anymore. They said you're a bad influence," James says in a sad tone.

My eyes instantly fill with tears and I shoot straight into a sitting position. I can deal with the loss of caffeine, but I won't lose my best friend. I'll list Smudge for sale on Craig's List faster than I can type, "Unwanted Issue in Need of Home."

"Just kidding!" James laughs. "I bet that felt a lot worse than the Bella Swan is a Homewrecking Slutbag group, right? I was trying to make you feel better."

With my hand over my chest, I say, "I thought it was called Bella Swan is a Pregnant Hooker?"

My best pal is quiet for a moment. "Well, it's something like that. I actually think it might be, Bella Swan got Pregnant by Choking on Wiener."

I laugh. Dani's creative.

"I, on the other hand," James resumes, "posted about what a great aunt I'm going to be to the little mistake."

"You're sweet."

"I know. Also, I'm getting in the car. See you soon."

Twenty minutes later, James walks through the door with a pack of diapers under her arm.

"We should start hoarding these," she says, tossing them onto the kitchen counter before falling on the couch next to me. "They're actually really expensive."

I extend my legs onto her lap and try to smile. Pixie-blonde and banana-carrot scented, my best friend lifts her sunglasses to the top of her crazy hair and tenderly rubs her hand up and down my leg. The sweet show of affection brings tears to my eyes.

"We won't have to worry about that if we don't keep the baby," I say.

"Yeah," James says regretfully. "But you've decided not to off the little fucker, right?"

I rotate in her direction and lay my head on my mast's lap. She runs her slender fingers through my sleep-tangled hair.

"No, but I might give it away. Someone else would probably be a better match than me. And you should have seen Charlie's face when I told him, James. He totally attacked Edward."

With the memory of my father's devastated expression fresh on my mind, the hurt I feel only intensifies, because I know that I own Ex-boyfriend's hurt, too. But watery eyes finally spill over when I remember that Smirks openly denied having a relationship with me in front of his family and mine.

"I swear, I do nothing but cry," I say, wiping sadness from my cheeks.

Just then, Esme Cullen walks through the front door, and I know these tears won't dry anytime soon.

.

.

.

After I brew another pot of coffee I can't drink, I drop some bread into the toaster, hoping it'll help settle the spin in my stomach. Esme pulls out a seat at the kitchen table and drops a stack of papers down before she sits.

"I was online most of the night," she says. The only mother I've known is puffy-faced and speaks in a low, careful tone. "The first thing we need to do is get you to a real doctor, but I printed out some information about adoption."

Two slices of whole-wheat toast pops up, perfectly golden on each side. Without butter or jelly, I bring one piece to my lips and take a bite.

"Edward hasn't left his room since last night, but we should go over this with him," she continues.

"Okay," I answer with a mouth full of food. My hands begin to shake, and I wish there was a hole I could fall into.

"Week twelve," James speaks up from the spot she hasn't left on the couch. "Your baby's fingers are beginning to open and close, and his toes curl."

Mid-bite, I drop my breakfast onto the counter and cry out loud, unable to stop myself.

"Your baby-to-be is just over two inches long," she continues over my sorrow.

Esme covers her face with her hands before dropping them to her lap and turning in her chair to face my friend.

"It's nice that you're current on the child's development, but this isn't a joke." She looks at me. "My son won't speak to me because I suggested adoption, but these are your lives, Sail. Neither one of you have any business raising a baby."

My heart's beat picks up with the mention of Smirks.

"We don't need to make any decisions right away, but this needs to be considered," she says.

I nod, sadly understanding.

"I'll adopt it," James says. She shrugs her shoulders. "My parents aren't even mad. They think it's sweet."

Esme groans. "You're not helping."

As the morning burns into afternoon, and my dad finally returns from the sea, a heaviness no one can hide from hangs over the household. I turn on the TV, hoping for a welcomed distraction, but I can't focus on anything other than the life inside of me and its wavering future. James braids my hair while Charlie and Esme sit at the table and discuss insurance coverage and whether or not it would be better to use a local doctor or one out of town.

"Everyone already knows," I speak up. "There's a group on social media about it. So there's no need to hide."

Without my opinion, they choose a doctor based out of Forks and schedule an appointment for the following day.

"They'll be able to advise us on this adoption stuff," Esme says, sliding her stack of papers toward my dad. "There are so many options, I don't know where to start."

James lowers her mouth to my ear and whispers, "Are you going to let them give your kid away?"

I turn on the TV and spend the next hour watching a show about housewives who have too much time on their hands and too much collagen injected in their faces.

"As long as your baby doesn't grow up to look like that," my girl nods her head toward the blonde lady with the stretched-back face on the television, "you'll be fine."

The sense of wanting to be swallowed doesn't go away and only worsens as the adults in my life talk about me as if I'm not in the same room with them—as if they are not completely insane in their own minds. But as the hours tick by, my dad starts to fidget because he hasn't smoked all day, and I know Esme's hungry. I haven't seen her eat today, and she normally doesn't go an hour without shoving something fried in her mouth.

"You're way cooler than anyone they'd sell your baby to, Sail." James maintains her Keep the Darling Campaign. "Don't let them do it."

I haven't brushed my teeth at all since I woke up, and bad breath has to be bad for the tot. Besides, if I go a day without brushing my teeth, it might become a habit—addiction runs in my family. One day could easily turn into a week, or two, or three, or five.

Who needs to brush their teeth after five weeks? What's the point?

When gingivitis and tooth decay set in, Smirks really won't want me.

Is plaque hereditary?

Say I keep Smudge. What if he or she inherits my horrible mouth hygiene? Cavity-ridden with silver caps because I won't be able to afford the good ones, my kid will hate me because it'll have awful choppers, and it will be my fault.

People don't like other people with mouth odor. It's gross.

Even if I don't keep the kid. What if it's adopted to a family with fantastic dental insurance and beautiful teeth and great breath, but Smudge doesn't fit in because he inherited my lack of oral cleanliness?

What if they don't want him or her anymore because of it?

My spawn will end up in an orphanage, because I couldn't follow the dentist's instructions and brush three times daily.

Growing up with me as a mom and Edward as a dad has to be better than becoming a ward of the state of Washington.

I love this offspring too much to sentence it to that kind of future.

"Where are you going?" James asks as I suddenly walk past her.

"I need to scrub my mouth," I say. "Hopefully, we have mouthwash."

Determined to be the cleanest me I can be while pregnant, I'm about to turn down the hallway toward the bathroom when the front door opens and Smirks walks in.

With a puppy in his arms.

.

.

.

My mouth is minty fresh and clean when I come back out to the living room. Baby Daddy is sitting on the coffee table, with his auburn hair hidden beneath his hat, in a white tee and a pair of board shorts. The golden-colored mutt he brought home chews on his untied shoelaces, filling the small room with its homeless stench.

"What's with the dog?" I ask, deciding not to act hurt over how we left things last night.

Gray eyes shift from the puppy to me and my heart skips.

"I'm wondering the same thing," Charlie ponders, still sandy and in his wetsuit-gone-dry.

I walk to the kitchen and lean against the counter, waiting for an explanation. Edward stands and the puppy chases his laces as he comes to pause beside me. The father of my child lifts the dog and presents him.

"I got this for you," he says.

"What?" I scoff.

"For the love of fried pickles," Esme exclaims. "Tell me you're joking, Smirks."

Her son turns away from me, holding the pooch out in front of himself. I swear I can see fleas jumping through its layer of dirt and mangled fur. But the small beast is kind of cute in a disgusting and nightmarish kind of way.

"Hear me out," Edward replies.

"I think he's cute," James pipes in. "We should keep him."

We snap our heads in her direction, and she just shrugs, like it's no biggie.

"I went to Charlie's earlier for my shift, but the place was locked up," Baby Daddy starts.

"You have the key," my dad grumbles, brushing sand from his wet suit to the wooden floor.

My fingers start to twitch.

"Anyway, I was going to open the place up, but this dirty guy ran past me. I got a bowl from the burger place next door and gave him some water, but he wouldn't drink it unless I stood beside him."

"Aww, you made a friend," James teases.

Charlie, with his feet cradled in a pair of flip-flops, pushes the soles of his shoes back and forth on the floor, scraping tiny granules of sand underneath them.

"I'm not ready to make a decision about the baby," Smirks explains, setting the mongrel down. "Give me and Sail some time to figure this out for ourselves. If we can take care of the dog, maybe we can take care of the kid."

"That's the stupidest shit—" Esme starts.

My dad's face starts to change shades like it did right before he pounced on the spawn's maker the previous night. Esme shakes her head, and James unlaces her shoes so the little monster will play with her.

But it has no interest in shoelaces anymore.

With overgrown nails, the pitiable dog sits on its bottom and lifts its hind leg. He scratches behind his ear, dropping pawfuls of sand onto the floor.

Only, the puppy starts to shake itself. He's nothing more than floppy ears, slobber, and sand … everywhere.

I'm about to insist that Smirks take the thing outside when the fucker, who doesn't even pee correctly, squats and urinates over the sand he and Charlie tracked in.

And because everything can always get worse, the putrid, ammonia-like scent of dog piss twists my stomach, and my mouth instantly fills with salvia. I puke before I can aim for the sink, and the bit of toast I had earlier and stomach acid spills to the floor with the puppy's untidiness.

Covering my mouth with my hand to keep it from happening again, I'm unable to move at all.

The right side of Edward's mouth lifts into a smirk, and he says, "She does that sometimes."

.

.

.

James volunteers as tribute and gives the dog a bath outside with the hose. I assume Esme goes home to cook up a fried egg or something, and after my dad insists Edward clean up the mess I made—it's your fault she's sick—he heads to his room and shuts the door. No doubt he's packing a bowl right now.

Cool sink water pours into my cupped palms, and I lift a drink to my lips. Swishing it around for a second, I spit before turning the water off and pressing my wet hands to my face.

Smirks throws towels over the contents of my stomach and gags.

"I can't"—gag—"It's horrible."

In an attempt to help, I spray Hawaiian Island scented air freshener throughout the kitchen. The fake-flower, fake-island smell gets to me, though. I set the can down as my jaw starts to ache, and my eyes fill with tears. Edward gags because of the soiled towels, and I gag because Hawaii should not be put into a can.

"No!" Smirks shouts, reaching for me. He turns me away from the kitchen and carefully pushes me toward the hallway. "Go take a bath or something so we can go."

I brush my teeth until my gums bleed, determined to pass amazing oral hygiene to the spawn. After a quick shower, I dress in an old summer dress and slip on my faded red Vans. I comb my fingers through my hair as I head back out to the kitchen. Smirks is done cleaning and is washing his hands as I emerge.

That panty-dropping smile appears on his lips when he sees me.

I don't drop my underwear. That's how we got into this predicament in the first place. Plus, I put on the biggest, grandma-like undies I own.

Comfort counts.

Because he's still my fixing best friend, I walk right to him and let him wrap me up in his embrace. Edward's warm, and as I circle my arms around his lower back, heat rushes to my cheeks, reddening them. He kisses the top of my head, and I swear I feel it in my toes.

"Let's go." Baby Daddy takes my hand and leads me out the front door.

The dog hates the leash.

Though, the term "leash" should be used lightly. Edward took the shoe strings out of his chucks, tied them together, and knotted one end to the chain our mutt has around its neck.

This puppy parenting thing is already off to an amazing start.

"Why should we waste funds on a leash for the dog? The laces work, and we saved money … for diapers and those rubber things the kids suck on." Edward pulls on the pooch's chain, but he doesn't move.

"Pacifiers?" James asks, in a tone that implies Smirks will be the worst dad ever. My girl drops her skateboard to the sidewalk and rolls it back and forth with her foot.

"Whatever," Edward shrugs.

My guy-ish pulls on the shoelace a little more. Pup lays on his stomach and whines.

He rolls over.

More fleas hop out of his fur.

"Let him go, Edward," I say, exasperated. "He hates you."

It's not the dog or the shoe ties I'm annoyed with. Even Baby Daddy's intentions are good. I don't like being outside; I might be seen by the enemy, aka, Dani "Bella's-going-to-get-fat-because-she's-a knocked-up-whore Facebook group admin" California.

I feel like, if I do run into her, she'll throw more than dirty looks and rocks at me this time. Normally, I'd roll her up, but being with child limits my ability to defend myself significantly.

"The dog doesn't want to walk with us," I say as I look over both of my shoulders, making sure the coast is clear. The smart thing to do would be to run back into the house and grab the bat my pops leaves in his closet. I should also invest in a stun gun or a shank.

"Give him a chance, Sail," the hopeful boy says, patting his leg and making kissing noises at the dog.

The mongrel starts to chew on the shoestring, indifferent to Smirks' determination. Our fur baby is wild, so I dig why he doesn't want to walk on a leash. He doesn't want to be tied down, and he shouldn't be. Puppy didn't ask for this.

If I can make this transition easier on the little fleabag, I will.

"Give me the leash," I say, holding out my hand. "I have an idea."

Edward doesn't hesitate and hands his dirty laces over, giving me the mutt. I bend down to the dog's level and try to reason.

"Life's hard, pooch," I say, "and not fair, so get the fuck up, because I'm hungry and not ruling out sticking you in the oven with an apple in your mouth, okay?"

Just then, my stomach rumbles, and some kid walks past me with delicious smelling funnel cake. Without thinking, I drop the leash and reach out for the boy's strawberry-topped dessert. The punk kid—who obviously lacks manners—smacks my hand away, and the fleabag escapes. With the shoelaces still tied to his chain, the dog runs right into the street … and gets hit by a double surrey, ridden by a family of four.

Pup yelps, and the surrey riders fly off, and every pedestrian looks at me and my friends.

And Dani, who snuck up on me in my moment of hunger-weakness shouts, "Whore!"