Cayla didn’t want her boyfriend telling anyone about their mistake. Not ever. 

She didn’t even want to believe their mistake was real. That’s why she was up again peeing on sticks while the entire world was sleep. Her pee dripped from her body to the stick. Squeezing the stick tight, she prayed it would prove the others wrong. Hope, horror, and impatience climbed up her legs. The two pink lines grew, her hands shaking. Maybe she should pee on another. Maybe she should accept this pregnancy as her new reality. 

She wrapped each stick in three folds of toilet paper and ripped each packaging to tiny shreds. She buried the sticks deep down in the bathroom trash, under the neatly wrapped pads, the dirty dental floss, and used razors. She carried the trash three houses down to a neighbor’s trash bin. No one saw her ‘cause it was an hour past midnight in Harrison, Arkansas where everyone settled in by ten. Once she was sure her bag was at the bottom of the bin, she returned to her bed, only to give up on sleep and start watching TikToks about teen pregnancies.  

She scrolled past all the viral TikToks of Daddy coaching his undefeated football team, stopping on a TikTok about IUDs. She wished her teachers had told her about contraception. She wished her teachers had told her about pregnancy statistics and abortion laws. Abortion was outlawed in Arkansas. She and Lyam would have to bus to Illinois. 

She watched TikToks till the birds started chirping outside her window. She watched TikToks till she accepted she was seven weeks pregnant, and she could quote pregnancy statistics like Bible verses: Only forty percent completed high school, only two percent completed college by thirty. 

That was scary. 

She copied video links and statistics into an email, sending it to Lyam, the only human alive who knew she spent her evenings peeing on sticks. Then she tiptoed past Momma and Daddy’s bedroom, pausing at their door to pray, Please let my secret survive another day.

Lyam’s birthday was this Saturday. Her family was supposed to join his for brunch to celebrate. Thankfully, Daddy couldn’t go. He was in Nashville networking with coaches at Vanderbilt University. And Cayla wished Momma was also too busy to attend. 

Cayla wasn’t sure how a joint family brunch would go. She had never met Lyam’s parents, so she didn’t know the kinds of questions they’d ask. Would they be nosey? It was hard enough keeping Momma out of her business. She had to pretend she was excited about everything from her cheerleading practices, to bed sheets and desk decor, to that new peach salad recipe, to chili hotdogs, to a neighbor’s new dog, to Vanderbilt and that eight-hour drive to Vanderbilt. All Momma wanted to talk about was Vanderbilt. 

Cayla had begged Momma and Daddy to keep her admission status private, but they bragged about it to all their co-workers at school, wanting everyone at Stark Harrison High to know, “My baby got a scholarship to Vanderbilt.” And they didn’t stop there. Cayla’s phone was filled with congratulation texts from cousins she hadn’t heard from since last year’s family reunion. 

Cayla had to smile and say thank you to random teachers. She had to reply to her family’s texts. She did it cause if she was rude, it’d get back to Momma and Daddy. They were one of the only minorities at Stark Harrison, so Cayla had to pretend that she was so excited about heading off to Vanderbilt with her exotic French boyfriend. 

Cayla felt exhausted walking around school with this secret. But Lyam never looked or sounded exhausted. He asked good questions in AP Chemistry. He ate his avocado sandwiches at lunch. He dreamed out loud about their summer plans before college.  

They sat under a tree at lunch, she snuggled against his chest, his arms tightened around her waist, she too afraid to ask him about the baby at school. But that wouldn’t keep her from wanting Lyam to be brave. She wished he’d mention the baby and the emails filled with TikToks. But he kept dreaming out loud, sounding hopeful and confident about his future. His excitement dripped with a thick French accent, seeping into her body, comforting her and sparking daydreams about keeping her child, their child. Maybe being a wife and mother at seventeen wouldn’t be so bad. Lyam had his full-ride scholarship. His family had money. She could trust Lyam, right?

The bell rang, shattering her fantasies. Leaving his arms made visions of wifing at seventeen feel insane when all she had was tuition covered. She still needed books, and health insurance, and food. Momma and Daddy weren’t rich like Lyam’s parents. She’d have to get a job. And what about cheerleading? She couldn’t cheerlead while pregnant and balance school and work. Plus, she didn’t have a car. And what about daycare? And didn’t people dislike hiring pregnant people? And what about Momma and Daddy? Harrison was a conservative town that never stopped gossiping. And what if Lyam discovered daddying wasn’t as exciting as playing football at Vanderbilt? Cayla had watched TikToks on Black single mothers. There were a lot, something like twenty-nine percent of Black mothers were raising kids alone.  

No, maybe she was safer getting an abortion.

Saturday morning slapped Cayla in the face. 

She hadn’t gotten much sleep with consuming TikToks on pregnancy statistics, a nighttime ritual that kept her eyes open till the birds chirped. 

She emailed her newest batch of links to Lyam and then dragged herself to the kitchen. 

She grabbed a box of funfetti from the cabinets. She dumped the cake mix into a glass bowl, banging two eggs on the rim, emptying the yolks into the white powder before poking them into gold streams. Then she poured almond milk cause Lyam wouldn’t drink cow’s milk. Lyam didn’t like eating animals, and he didn’t like drinking their discharge. The only person in all of Harrison who wouldn’t eat a hamburger on game day. 

Cayla glanced up, eyes settling on the kitchen cabinets where she had taped a photo of Lyam. It was after the football team won forty-two to thirty against their rival. They had been soaked in sweat, she in her cheerleading uniform, him in his jersey. He was built like a quarterback with blond hair falling in ringlets. She was built like a gymnast, her muscles loving her calves and thighs. He had asked her out that night, and the next morning, she had taped the photo to the fridge. Momma had seen it first, wanting to know, “Who is this white boy?”

“He looks like one of those Hillsong hipsters,” Momma had said. “You know how they are: all music and no faith.” 

“He didn’t grow up here, so he’s not your average Harrison white boy,” Cayla had explained, keeping Lyam’s church-going status to herself. She was never volunteering that information, especially after Momma had warned her, “Only the devil should be so nice and good-looking.” Momma had kept saying that even after Lyam had enrolled in her history class junior year and aced it. Cayla figured growing up in Harrison made it extra hard for Momma to trust people that looked like Lyam, so she had ignored Momma. But maybe she should have listened. Then she wouldn’t have let Lyam slide between her legs. 

Cayla’s cell phone rang, distracting her cake mixing. It was Lyam. She selfishly let it ring, wanting this alone time with her fears. When Lyam called again, she silenced it. And then he called again, and she felt guilty. She knew he would keep calling or, worse, show up to make sure she hadn’t run off with their secret. 

“Couldn’t wait three hours?” she whispered, tiptoeing to close the kitchen door. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

He was going to dump her. She held her breath, waiting for him to finally mention the emails. She had wanted him to know their reality cause Momma always taught knowledge was power. But she knew Lyam could use that knowledge to justify why they could no longer work. She couldn’t stand the silence anymore, so she asked, “Why can’t you sleep?” 

“I’m going crazy thinking about you.”

She sighed, partly relieved. He was flirting. “Then stop thinking.”

“Tell me how.”

“Focus on something else.” She stirred the eggs until the powder mixed with the almond milk and the oil disappeared into the cream. “I’m baking you cupcakes.” 

“Yum.”

“I’ll try not to eat them all before I get to your house.” 

“Stress eating’s real. Are you scared?” 

Cayla felt a release. “Really scared. I watched this morning only two percent of black teen mothers complete college by thirty. Did you know that?” 

“It’s a shame the U.S. doesn’t support its women, but you don’t worry. With my parents’ help, we’ll finish by twenty-one. Easy.” 

“You keep saying that. But what about my parents? They’d be so disappointed.”

She listened to the kitchen silence, unsure if the phone had disconnected. “Hello?”

“I want to dream big for you,” he said. “Big beyond this town and its limits.” 

There he went, talking romantic again. Sixty percent of her loved when Lyam talked romantic. He called her beautiful and said how much his family would love her, his words easing her fears about begging on the street. She listened to Lyam talk love while she scooped the funfetti batter into each red cupcake sleeve. He talked love as if he had lived through heartbreak while the cupcakes turned into golden puffs.

She thought back to the first time she met Lyam. He had shuffled into Mr. Carlo’s sophomore English class the first day of school. His blond, curly hair had been pulled back into a manbun. His head was raised, proud, a giant unafraid to fill the classroom. When Mr. Carlo asked Lyam to pick a seat, he had looked at Cayla, and fire lit his pupils. 

He slid into the desk beside her and asked, “Are you the only one?” 

“The only what?” She figured he’d never seen a Black girl before. 

He stared, grinning. 

She had felt the need to explain that she had a scholarship cause her parents worked there, and most of the Black kids went to Larchman Public on Martin Luther King Boulevard. And Lyam said he, too, had a scholarship to play varsity for her Daddy. She hadn’t known French people played American football. And she had spent the rest of Mr. Carlo’s class listening to Lyam talk about how America brought football to France during World War I and that, in his country, thousands of women played. There was even a women’s team, Sparkles de Villeneuve. 

Lyam had walked her to math class and had noticed how the Stark Harrison hallways filled with bodies covered in skin that contrasted with her dark hue. She had watched his face change, listening to the latest gossip about the KKK’s billboard perched just outside of the Harrison country club. Someone had shouted “‘DIVERSITY’ is a code word for #WhiteGenocide” across the hallways. Lyam hadn’t known what that meant. 

Cayla had felt the need to fill him in on the political climate so he could have some kind of social life. Long story short, Harrison was tense. Emotions had not returned to normal since the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests. High school sweethearts had broken up, friendships had shattered, people had swapped classes and social clubs and churches. And it felt like the news wouldn’t give them a break, always talking about DEI legislation, book banning, Republicans, Democrats, Pakistan, Israel, abortion rights, gay rights. People had all these emotions, and they expressed it in weird ways, like laughing about KKK billboards decorated in white gamer font. 

“I hate it here,” Lyam had whispered to her in the parking lot after school. 

She had felt the need to defend Harrison. Maybe it wasn’t as diverse as growing up all over Europe and Northern Africa, but it had great barbecue, football, and good church music, and community.

But Lyam had meant what he said. Everyone at Stark Harrison thought Lyam was so mean cause he didn’t care about knowing their names, eating meat at their Harrison parties, or sitting in their Harrison church services. Instead, Lyam focused on training with her Daddy, planning to leave and only return when he could brag about being a famous NFL player. He’d show up with Cayla and their baby. They’d be dressed in his jersey. Her finger would have a wedding ring, his a Super Bowl ring. She had always been a wife and mother in his dreams—no job. At first, she’d point out to him that she had dreams of balancing a cheerleading career with her STEM goals, but she struggled to see her dreams as clearly as Lyam’s. Besides, there was a time when she could talk about her goals, and that time was never when Lyam was dreaming about being an NFL star. 

She applied that lesson as the cupcakes finished in the oven, listening to Lyam talk about their future as if they were underdogs going up against pregnancy, another rival to annihilate on the way to state. Sure, the odds didn’t feel great, but with enough preparation, they’d win. All their haters would end up cheering them on. 

Lyam’s optimism seeped through her cell phone, rooting and growing inside her like her baby, pushing her to give birth to a decision. Was she keeping it or not?  

The shower turned on, snapping Cayla from her thoughts. Beyoncé singing drifted from the second floor, clear signs Momma was awake. 

She kicked Lyam off the phone and rushed upstairs to get ready. She stared into the mirror, wondering if she should wear her hair curly or straight. Momma hated every time she straightened her hair. She believed Black hair was a statement that proclaimed, Never lie down! But all Cayla wanted to do was lie down and pray no one noticed anything off about her. Straight hair would make it easier to blend in with Lyam’s family, so she opted for straight, slipping on a white, flowery dress that made her look more innocent than she felt.

Cayla had waited months before first inviting Lyam to dinner. She had made sure he knew her ancestors had been slaves from Texas. She had shown him her family album with her lineage sharecropping. She had told him not to wear a manbun to dinner or mention that he was agnostic. 

And still, with all that preparation, Momma had made dinner awkward. 

Momma didn’t like Lyam, and Cayla knew it was because he was a wealthy, good-looking white boy. But there was nothing Lyam could do about his hair and eyes and his overflowing privilege. Just like there would be nothing she could do about her dark skin and nappy hair and her body punishing her for sinning with Lyam.

She gripped her cupcake tray tighter, approaching the Cadieuxs’ house. They lived on a farm at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by trees. Lyam’s daddy bred racehorses and Lyam’s momma trained equestrians. Lyam’s sister was a champion equestrian, and Lyam was an undefeated quarterback training under the best high school coach in the country. And here was Cayla, seventeen and pregnant, trekking through the grass to the Cadieuxs’ enormous house. 

Cayla breathed in the smell of manure floating from the horse stables. Grass stains and mud attacked the hem of her dress while Momma’s red maxi hugged her muscles like a summer sweat, resisting any mud and grass. 

“You know both Lyam and I love red,” Mrs. Cadieux shouted, standing with her arms wide on the front porch. She squeezed Cayla in a hug, pulling back to study her face. “You look tired. Are you sleeping?” 

Fear attacked Cayla. “Yes.” She held up her cupcakes. “I made funfetti. Lyam said he likes funfetti.”

“So cute and yummy.” Mrs. Cadieux grabbed the tray. She kissed both Momma’s cheeks before leading them through her giant home to the kitchen where Mr. Cadieux and Lyam’s sister sliced onions and tomatoes. 

Mrs. Cadieux sat the funfetti cupcakes next to a cake that was decorated like a football. An old woman, Lyam’s grandmomma, finished the icing around the perimeter. 

Cayla’s face flushed red. Her cupcakes looked a mess sitting next to that cake. She reached for her tray, hoping to return them to the car, but Lyam’s grandmomma moved to grab one.

Grandmomma nibbled on the bread, commenting, “I can taste the butter.” 

“We love cooking with butter in Harrison,” Momma laughed, grabbing one herself. 

They were having a good ole time, but Cayla felt ashamed that she had been too exhausted to notice how careless her cupcakes looked. As if she had thrown them together last minute when all she had really wanted was to share her favorite celebration treat with Lyam. Daddy and Momma loved baking funfetti cupcakes. There was always a box in their kitchen, and now that Lyam was family, Cayla had thought to include him in the tradition. 

A hand reached past her. 

Cayla’s heart thumped, eyes traveling up a muscular right arm to a round shoulder. Her eyes continued upward to Lyam’s pink lips, watching his white teeth bite into her cupcake, all that butter and bread soiling his vegetarian purity. She felt warm and guilty. Almost like sex. 

Finally, her eyes met his eyes, her body meeting his body, her head resting against his chest. Lyam’s hug felt so good and safe that she closed her eyes for a second. It would be so nice to fall asleep. She listened to Mr. Cadieux’s knife slicing and Mrs. Cadieux encouraging Momma’s obsession with Vanderbilt. 

“We have to book the same flight,” Mrs. Cadieux said.

“Flight? Honey, we driving. I love a good road trip,” Momma replied.  

Would it be a good road trip? Cayla squeezed Lyam tighter. Would they be smiling or yelling? Would the Cadieuxs end up flying cause Lyam couldn’t stomach an eight-hour drive with her after a break-up? She would have made a decision long before they set off to Nashville. She’d be pregnant or not. And no matter how much Lyam told her it was her body, she was always a mother in his dreams. 

“Thomas should be here soon,” Mrs. Cadieux said, pointing to the time on the stove. She pulled lamb out of the oven. 

Thomas? Cayla lifted her head from Lyam’s body. Thomas was her daddy’s name. 

“His plane landed about an hour ago,” Lyam confirmed.  

“Thomas is coming?” Momma was as confused as Cayla. Guess the Cadieuxs could keep a secret as well.  

Mrs. Cadieux shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Lyam had called him and begged him to come. He booked a flight… late last night, was it?” 

Cayla glared at Lyam.

“It’s my birthday,” he said, as if it was normal for her daddy, not his daddy, but her daddy to uproot his work life for his birthday brunch.

Momma didn’t trust Lyam, but Daddy loved him some Lyam. Cayla wished Daddy didn’t love Lyam so much, as if Lyam were his football dreams coming true. But Cayla knew her daddy would have been a teenage Lyam if he hadn’t been forced to attend Larchman. Larchman Public School lacked the resources to draw recruiters from SEC teams. So finally, when Daddy got the job coaching at Stark Harrison High, he had worked hard to become so famous he could recruit a player like Lyam from Paris. Daddy brought Lyam to Harrison and molded him into his dream no longer deferred. 

Cayla wanted to pretend she wasn’t angry, but she was tired of pretending. When Momma and the Cadieuxs headed to sip mocktails on the veranda, Cayla excused herself to the bathroom. She wandered through the house and out the back, walking with no place in mind. Would she end up at an Illinois abortion clinic or would she end up in Nashville with a football field for a stomach? She was blinded by unknowingness, so she let her nostrils guide her through the Cadieux’s backyard, a backyard as immense as her future. There were so many choices, but the stables smelled the strongest. The horses whinnied at her, pacing the stalls. They didn’t like her despair contaminating their area. 

She felt a hand grab her wrist. It was Lyam. She snatched it away. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“You knew my daddy was coming and said nothing, but you can’t say anything. Promise.”  

Lyam lowered his head, thinking carefully about his words. He treated discussions like plays, rarely deploying offense. She learned to be patient cause Lyam was like her daddy, only he wouldn’t fly out of state when he got overwhelmed. He’d simply ignore her. 

“I told them,” Lyam explained. 

“You told my daddy?” 

“My parents.” 

“You went behind my back? You told your parents?”

“It’s my birthday. Please, let me finish.”

She swatted the horseflies buzzing in her face. “Go head.” 

“I did not want them to be mad at you, so I told them. They want us to tell your mum and–”

“You don’t read the emails at all!” she screamed. “Don’t you know what could happen to me if I kept this baby?” 

“I read them.” Lyam fell to his knees, his hands resting palms up on his thighs, head hanging heavy like she imagined Jesus’ head had hung bloodied on the cross. He looked so beaten down and small. She didn’t want to beat him down like Harrison would beat her. Momma was always asking her who taught her to hate herself when she knew damn well Harrison taught her to hate her body. Lyam had never hated her body. He had kissed every inch of her, held her tight, as if she were the sweat he earned after winning a game. 

She kneeled, but he was still taller than her, so she nudged him until he fell backward. She lay on his chest and snuggled her head under his chin. It felt right, as if they were both the perfect height when little else felt right. Nothing was in her control. Not her body. Not her future. Definitely not Lyam. How was she supposed to be a mom and a wife when she would have cheerleading, and school, and work? Would she have to sacrifice her dreams and just be happy for Lyam? 

“Lyam? Cayla?” 

She tensed, sitting up. The sun glowed behind Mr. and Mrs. Cadieux’s approaching bodies. Their faces softened, eyes darting from Lyam to Cayla. 

Cayla fisted the tears from her cheeks and massaged the mud stains from her white dress. 

“What happened?” Mrs. Cadieux asked. 

“She knows,” Lyam whispered. 

Cayla recoiled. 

Mrs. Cadieux pulled Cayla into a group hug with Mr. Cadieux and Lyam joining. They cocooned her in warmth, making her feel like her baby inside her womb.  

“We can tell them together,” Mrs. Cadieux said. 

She supposed now that Lyam had stolen her fear, all she had left was bravery. She followed Mr. and Mrs. Cadieux through their backyard to their veranda where Momma sipped wine. Daddy had arrived with gifts. Tubs of hot popcorn with Vanderbilt jerseys were tucked inside gold gift bags, one for her and one for Lyam.

 She imagined Daddy ripping the jerseys to shreds as soon as she voiced her secret. 

“Can we talk?” Cayla asked. 

Daddy’s smile shrank, looking to Momma, who was clueless as to why Mr. and Mrs. Cadieux stood there frowning with Lyam when they should all be getting drunk. 

Cayla could tell Momma and Daddy’s neurons were firing off. The teen birth rate in Arkansas was double the national average, and Momma and Daddy worked at a high school. She didn’t need to spell it out for Daddy. He glanced at Lyam’s face, frowned, and pulled out his cell phone. Cayla knew him well enough to know he was googling abortion clinics. He’d have a solution by the end of the night. That was how Daddy worked. Momma was different. She was patient and slower to make decisions like Cayla. That’s why Momma waited, hands clasped above her heart. 

Cayla stared hard into Momma’s face, squeezing Lyam’s sweaty palm. His fat pressing against her fat gave her strength to speak. 

Momma shook her head. “You’re what?” 

She repeated it louder. 

“We’re pregnant,” Lyam corrected. 

Daddy massaged Momma’s back.

“How long did y’all know this?” Momma asked the Cadieuxs. 

Mrs. Cadieux’s eyes went big. “Lyam wanted our advice, as soon as he found out.”

Cayla snatched her hand out of Lyam’s. They had known for that long? 

“And you didn’t think to tell us about our own daughter?” Momma demanded.

“I didn’t want anyone knowing,” Cayla said. “Lyam shouldn’t have told anyone.” 

“You didn’t get pregnant all by yourself, so you can’t deal with this all by yourself.”

“She’s right, baby girl. You need resources.” And Daddy was real good at finding resources. 

“And love and support,” Mrs. Cadieux said. 

Momma cut her eyes at Mrs. Cadieux. 

“We’re here for you, whatever you decide,” Lyam said, but was he really? 

Daddy’s hand stilled on Momma’s back. “Y’all decided something without us?” 

Momma didn’t believe in abortion. Cayla knew that. Daddy was laser-focused on movement, and he didn’t care what that movement was as long as they were progressing. He looked like he was leaning toward abortion while the Cadieuxs wanted her to keep the child. They looked like they had this romantic vision of Cayla going off to school while they raised her baby as their own, as if Momma and Daddy wouldn’t fight them. As if Cayla could just abandon her baby in Harrison while living the perfect girlfriend life with Lyam. But she couldn’t just abandon her baby in Harrison and let her entire life be defined by Lyam’s quest for a Super Bowl ring. She needed her own dreams, and she needed to see them as clearly as she saw Lyam’s. Her bottom lip trembled. “I was watching videos on pregnant teens, and it said we’re more likely to be poor.”

“Over my dead body,” Daddy said. 

“I don’t want to quit cheerleading. I want to go to school and become a data scientist.” 

“I’m not letting you quit. You can get an abortion and still start in the fall.”

“Abortion?” Momma asked, shocked at Daddy. “Why she got to get an abortion?”

“Ain’t that what you want, Cayla?” Daddy begged her with his eyes.  

No. The thought scared Cayla tense. No? 

“Your mother’s right,” Mrs. Cadieux said. “Abortion doesn’t have to be the answer. You can have the baby and go to school. We can take care of him–” 

“You take care of him? She has a Momma and Dad–”

“Did she–” Daddy cut Momma off. “Is that what you told them?” He looked betrayed.

“No, never.” Cayla looked away while they all stared at her, demanding answers. She could tell Daddy was the only one that wanted her to terminate the pregnancy. Problem solved, and he could get back to focusing on turning high school players into collegiate athletes. Momma would be shamed, but she would do the Lord’s work in this sinful world. And the Cadieuxs looked ready to shop for baby clothes. Cayla could tell they’d been dreaming about her, just like Lyam dreamed. He stared at her, eyes filled with the hope that made her fall in love with him. He was so brave, and she loved him and wanted to be brave like him. She swallowed, her heart aching as she made a decision. Happy birthday, Lyam.  

She raised her head high, refusing to cry, refusing to voice her decision when she didn’t want Lyam’s birthday to be about her body and her fuzzy future. “I want a cupcake.” 

“You ain’t got time,” Daddy snapped. 

Momma gripped Daddy’s arm. “She ain’t got time for a cupcake?”

The Cadieuxs laughed nervously. Daddy gulped the last of his beer, reaching for another.

Cayla slipped into the house, venturing into the dining room where Lyam’s sister and Grandmomma completed dressing the table with all of the food. Her cupcakes sat in the center. Soon, her baby would be as big as a cupcake . . . Her fingers paused above the icing. 

Lyam grabbed the one she was reaching for, taking a bite. He closed his eyes and moaned. “This is really good. It’s vegan?” 

“Shut up.” 

He licked the icing, bending forward to smooth it on her lips. His mouth tasted like funfetti as he transferred the wet crumbs from his tongue to her tongue. 

She swallowed the cake, licking the icing from his mouth. She loved him so much even though her love had cost her her dreams. She fought back her tears and the pain in her chest. She’d cry when she’d get home.  

He took another bite and teased her lips open. She swallowed the spongy bread. She dreamt about him playing at Vanderbilt. The image was high definition in her head. She tried to see herself cheerleading, taking college math, but all she saw was her baby sleeping in a crib. She told herself that she might not get to do those things next year, but with her family’s support, she could still pursue her dreams. It was still safe to dream, dream bigger than Harrison. 

“Joyeux anniversaire,” Mrs. and Mr. Cadieux’s voices floated from the hall. They entered the dining room carrying Lyam’s football cake decorated in candles lit with fire. Momma and Daddy followed behind, joining Mr. and Mrs. Cadieux singing, “Joyeux anniversaire.” 

Cayla didn’t sing, afraid her voice would crack. She rested in Lyam’s arms, letting the song prepare her for whatever the future served, a baby, a cupcake, a vegan chocolate cake, and… she closed her eyes, inhaling, exhaling… another year in Harrison.

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Lorraine Annette Wheat aims to explore the complexities of love through flawed characters that win. She loves writing YA romance, salsa dancing, milk chocolate, multi-colored braids, and coffee. Earning an MFA in Film and TV from the University of Southern California led to writing and directing Searching for Justice in LA, Cigarettes and Eggs, and Heart of Compton, which earned the Panavision New Filmmaker Program Grant. She’s published in The Hollywood Reporter, Variety, and Palaver Arts Magazine, and is a 2024 fellow for the Anaphora Arts Publishing Program.