The Detroit Diaries 🖤📖
Before I Knew — Part One
Something Feels Off
Georgia — September 2002
It started with my boobs hurting.
That should’ve been my first fucking clue.
But it wasn’t.
Because at eight-something in the morning, pregnancy was nowhere near the top of the list of shit I was thinking about.
Work was.
Coffee was.
Traffic was.
And Marshall Mathers apparently needing proof that I had not driven my Escalade directly into a fucking ditch between my house and the tanning salon.
I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror finishing my lip gloss when my phone rang.
I looked down.
Of course.
Marshall.
I smiled before I even answered.
“Hello?”
“Where you at?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Morning. Where you at?”
“At home.”
“You ain’t left yet?”
“I’m literally getting ready to.”
“You gotta open today?”
“Yep.”
“What time?”
“Nine.”
“What time you gotta be there?”
“Like eight-thirty.”
I glanced at the clock.
8:14 AM.
“Which means I need to get my fucking ass moving.”
“You’re gonna be late.”
“I am not gonna be late.”
“You’re still at home.”
“I live close enough!”
He laughed.
I tucked my hot-pink Nokia between my shoulder and ear while grabbing my purse.
This thing had become practically attached to me lately.
Mostly because of him.
Ever since Atlanta, we talked constantly.
Morning.
Night.
Random calls during the day.
Sometimes for an actual reason.
Sometimes he’d call just to ask what I was doing.
And whenever I drove somewhere?
Apparently I now had a personal check-in system.
Call him while I was leaving.
Then either call or text him when I arrived.
The first time he’d asked me to do it, I’d laughed.
Now?
I secretly thought it was cute as hell.
Not that I was telling him that.
⸻
And that morning, I was completely fucking dressed for work.
My long hair was down in dramatic black-and-platinum-blonde peekaboo curls, with the bright blonde framing my face and darker black sections showing underneath.
My makeup was pure Y2K me: smoky silver-gray shadow blended with soft pink shimmer, dramatic black winged liner, huge thick lashes, shimmering silver along the lower lash line and glossy petal-pink lips.
My little pink gemstone nose stud caught the light every time I turned my head.
I had on a fitted black lace camisole, tucked into tiny hot-pink shorts, with a wide metallic silver belt sitting low around my hips.
And the shoes?
Completely ridiculous for working at a tanning salon.
Which obviously meant I loved them.
Towering zebra-print platform heels with hot-pink heels and ankle straps.
I grabbed my matching structured hot-pink handbag.
My jewelry was equally incapable of being subtle.
Sparkling drop earrings with pink stones.
Diamond bracelets.
Rings.
And around my neck, my big sparkling diamond butterfly pendant.
My belly-button jewelry sparkled underneath my shirt—a rhinestone bow dangling from the piercing.
My long coffin nails were bright, almost neon hot pink.
I looked like Barbie had gotten into a fight with a zebra.
Perfect.
⸻
“Baby?”
Marshall’s voice brought me back.
“What?”
“You listening?”
“No.”
“What the fuck?”
I laughed.
“I’m getting my purse!”
“You always this difficult in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
I headed downstairs.
And halfway down—
I stopped.
My chest hurt.
Not hurt hurt.
Just…
Tender.
Really fucking tender.
I adjusted my camisole.
“Ow.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You just said ow.”
“My bra’s annoying me.”
Silence.
Then—
“What bra?”
I closed my eyes.
“Marshall.”
“What?”
“Don’t start.”
“I asked a question.”
“Goodbye.”
He laughed.
“Baby—”
“I have to go to work.”
“Call me when you get there.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
That shut him up for approximately half a second.
Then—
“Don’t fucking call me that unless—”
“GOODBYE, MARSHALL.”
I hung up laughing.
My phone rang again before I’d even made it to the front door.
I stared at it.
“Are you fucking serious?”
I answered.
“What?!”
“You hung up on me.”
“Yes!”
“I wasn’t done.”
“You’re never fucking done!”
He laughed.
“Drive safe.”
My expression softened.
“I will.”
“And tell me when you’re there.”
“I promise.”
“Love you.”
That still made my stomach flutter.
We hadn’t known each other long enough for those words to feel normal yet.
But somehow they already did.
“I love you too.”
⸻
I climbed into my black Escalade and tossed my pink purse onto the passenger seat.
Phone beside it.
Music up.
Air-conditioning blasting because Georgia had apparently decided September was still summer.
I backed out.
And almost immediately—
Something felt weird.
I couldn’t explain it.
I was tired.
Really tired.
Which wasn’t unusual considering how late I’d been staying up talking to Marshall.
But this was different.
Heavy.
Like I’d slept for eight hours and somehow needed eight more.
At a red light, I yawned so hard my eyes watered.
“Jesus Christ.”
Then my stomach did a tiny flip.
I frowned.
Not nausea exactly.
Just…
Off.
I cracked the window.
That helped.
“Probably hungry.”
That made sense.
I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Problem solved.
Or so I thought.
⸻
I pulled into work a few minutes before eight-thirty.
“Ha!”
I grabbed my phone.
I didn’t even bother calling.
I sent him a quick text.
MADE IT. ALIVE. HAPPY? 💋
Approximately thirty seconds later, my phone rang.
I laughed.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Hello?”
“You made it?”
“I JUST TEXTED YOU.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“Wanted to hear your voice.”
Fuck.
I smiled.
“You’re annoying.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You opening by yourself?”
“For a little while.”
“Lock the door behind you.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Jessica.”
“I will!”
I unlocked the salon.
“I’m going inside now.”
“All right.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hung up.
⸻
The tanning salon smelled exactly the way it always did.
Cleaning solution.
Lotion.
That faint warm smell from the tanning beds.
Normally?
Didn’t bother me.
That morning?
I made it approximately ten feet.
Then stopped.
My stomach rolled.
Hard.
I put my purse down.
“What the fuck?”
I swallowed.
Waited.
It passed.
Mostly.
I shook my head.
“Okay.”
Probably hadn’t eaten.
I started opening.
Lights.
Computers.
Register.
Towels.
Checking rooms.
Turning everything on.
Normal shit.
Except I couldn’t stop yawning.
And my chest still hurt.
And suddenly the smell of one of the tanning lotions on the counter was making my stomach turn.
I picked it up.
I’d smelled this shit approximately five thousand times.
Today?
Absolutely fucking disgusting.
I put it down.
“Nope.”
Then I caught my reflection in one of the mirrors.
I looked normal.
Hair done.
Makeup perfect.
Hot-pink nails.
Black-and-pink outfit.
Nothing about me looked different.
I put both hands on the counter.
And then I felt it again.
That weird little wave of nausea.
I closed my eyes.
“Please don’t let me be getting fucking sick.”
Because that was my explanation.
Flu.
Bug.
Bad food.
Stress.
Anything.
Anything except the one possibility that hadn’t even entered my mind yet.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Marshall.
I smiled.
And while I was reading it, one of my hands absentmindedly moved down and rested against my stomach.
I didn’t notice.
Not then.
There was nothing to notice.
No bump.
No movement.
No reason whatsoever for my hand to be there.
So I moved it, grabbed my keys and went back to opening the salon.
I had customers coming.
I had work to do.
And I had absolutely no fucking idea that my entire life had already changed.
I just hadn’t found out yet.
To Be Continued… 🖤📖
