Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I count the days in my head, then count them again, hoping the numbers will shift. They don't. Fourteen days. Two weeks. I’m never two weeks late. A heavy, sinking weight settles into the center of my chest. I stare at the speckled gray pattern of the stall door, the silence of the restroom suddenly feeling like a vacuum sucking the air right out of my lungs.
I stand up, my legs feeling like they're made of wet cardboard. I wash my face with freezing water, watching my reflection in the spotted mirror. Damn. I look like hell.
I leave work early, offering a vague excuse about a migraine to my supervisor. She doesn't question me because I look like a ghost wandering the halls of a Victorian estate. The drive to the corner store on the edge of Silver Spoon Falls is a blur of rural scenery and internal static. I turn up the air conditioning to full and let it blast against my face to keep the nausea at bay. Every mile I drive feels like I'm moving toward a cliff I can't avoid.
Inside the store, the air-conditioning is set to a frigid level, making me shiver as I navigate the aisles. I head straight for the medication section, my hand trembling as I reach for the box with the most expensive, digital promise of certainty. I don't want a faint blue line I have to squint at; I want a word. A clear, undeniable declaration of my fate. I pay for it with a stony expression, the plastic box tucked into my bag like a ticking bomb.
I rush over to my apartment to take the test. I fumble my keys so hard I nearly drop the test on the stairs. By the time I get inside, I’m shaking. Dizzy. I want to breathe, but I can’t get air past the taste still lingering in my throat.
I lock the door. Tear the box open with shaking hands. I read the instructions three times just to be sure. Then I take the test and lay it on the bathroom counter.
There’s a stupid digital hourglass blinking at me from the tiny window. Three minutes. An eternity.
I sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on knees, face in my hands. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. I can’t handle this alone. Not now. Not with the room tilting on its axis and my entire life possibly changing.
I look at the time and realize Hudson’s plane should be landing at any moment. Not wanting to worry him, I pull out my phone and text him.
Me
I ran back to my apartment to grab a few things. I won’t be long.
The response is damn near immediate. I picture him in an airport lounge, suit jacket off, eyes on his phone, but jaw set like always.
Hudson
I’ll be there in an hour or so. Is everything okay?
Okay is a relative term. I look at the test and it says “Pregnant.” No squinting, no hesitation. Just black letters, sharp as a knife. The world stops. Then flips over and starts again.
Another message from Hudson comes through.
Hudson
Are you okay????
I hate to worry him, so I send back a quick, mostly truthful message.
Me
I’m fine. I’ll see you soon.
I spend the next ten minutes just staring at the word on the pregnancy test. Pregnant. Like the universe took a red Sharpie and underlined my whole existence twice, maybe three times, just to make sure I get the point. My hands won't stop shaking. I take a breath. Then another. Still shaking.
Get it together, Tinsley. Happiness, excitement, fear, and terror all combine together deep in my soul, leaving me totally confused.
I wipe my face. Grip the sink. I glance in the mirror and realize I look like a mess with my mascara smudged, my hair half out of its tie, and my skin is so pale, I could moonlight as a vampire. I want to panic, but there’s no time for that. I dry my hands, dig a tote bag out from behind the bathroom door, and shove a few things I don’t really need into it along with the test stick.
Outside, the sky is acid blue, and the sun is blinding. I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes and head straight for the Corolla.
The drive out to Carrington Ranch takes twelve minutes, which feels like forever. By the time I hit the long gravel drive, my foot is shaking so bad I almost miss the turn.
I pull up and see Hudson’s big black truck sitting in the front driveway. My heart beats so loud it pounds in my ears. After parking, I take a deep breath and force myself out of the car. My knees almost buckle, but I somehow make it up the path, every step punctuated by the anxious riot in my chest.