Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Josie flips Norah the middle finger but opens the door wider, stepping out of the way so we can step in. “Oh, I’m great. Come inside quick, maybe you’ll catch it.”
Norah twists at the waist, her eyes widening slightly. “Maybe you’re not pregs, Breeze. Maybe it’s just a stomach bug.” She laughs, waggling her eyebrows with her back toward Josie. “Seems to be going around.”
“I’m not puking,” Josie contests easily. “I’m just tired. And you’re not puking, but you’re an asshole.”
I snort, and Josie turns her attention to me. “So, you think you might be knocked up, huh?”
I sigh and glare at Norah.
She shrugs in apology, licking at her top lip. “Look, I’m sorry, but I had to let her into the circle of trust. She wasn’t going to allow us in the house otherwise.”
I groan. I didn’t even notice her on the phone, but I suppose she had a few minutes while I was rolling around on the floor of the Stop and Go with the soup cans to make covert moves. “I don’t think I’m pregnant, but seeing as I’ve been violently ill and emotionally unstable all morning, I suppose I should make sure.”
“You know you have to have sex to get pregnant, right?” Josie teases. “I think there was only one immaculate conception.”
I roll my eyes, and she squeals. It’s very un-Josie-like, which makes it even more annoying. “Come on. Your sister has already been squealing all the way to Molene and back. Not you too,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Breeze!” Josie snaps. “You have to give me a little squealing—a squeak, at least. I mean, this is news. Who have you been sleeping with? Last time we talked, you were considering celibacy and a vibrator as your five-year plan.”
“I’m not ready to talk about this yet. Maybe after the test, but not before.”
“Fine, fine. Then go take the fucker,” Josie insists. “Bathroom is the second door on the left.”
Plastic bag in hand, I walk the march of shame down Josie’s long hallway, glancing at pictures from her and Clay’s wedding on the walls and smiling at the pictures of both Summer and Autumn that flank them.
I want to linger—to stay here where it feels safe and good and familiar—but I don’t. It’s not who I am, not who I’ve ever been. I face things head on. I make plans and lists, and I get stuff done. If a test is the next step, a test is what I’ll take.
Stepping into the bathroom, I close the door behind me and lock it, even though I know Josie and Norah would never betray my privacy by coming inside without permission. It’s just a subtle comfort—a reminder of NYC in some weird way, I guess, since locking doors there was like a reflex.
I study my face in the mirror, expecting the poltergeist, but for a woman who’s spent the morning retching, I look remarkably at ease. Softer than normal—like I’ve finally gotten enough oxygen after years of deprivation.
The bag crinkles as I dig inside, discarding it in Josie’s small trash can and tearing open the cardboard box to pull out the test.
My hands shake as I try to rip the seam of the blue foil package, failing two times before getting it. I take a deep breath as I read through the instructions carefully, summarizing in my head as I go—uncap, pee a continuous stream on the absorption pad for at least five seconds, recap, and then lie test flat for three or more minutes.
It seems simple, but the sheer audacity of needing to take this test for the first time in my life because I might be knocked up by a freaking sheep farmer from one of the smallest freaking towns ever is…overbearing, to say the least.
I lick my lips and set the foil on the countertop next to the sink basin, holding the test with a viselike grip while I pull my pants down and sit on the toilet seat. Josie has a picture of a flowerpot hanging on the wall directly across from me, and I find myself counting the petals along with the seconds as I place the test between my legs.
One, two, three, four, five. Six—just in case.
My hands are trembling—not from clumsiness, but from the quiet, creeping realization that everything could change because of one tiny pink line.
I recap the test and then lay it on the counter beside the foil packaging while I finish my business, flush, and wash my hands.
Once done, my palm drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. The gesture feels foreign, like I’m touching someone else’s body.
Motherhood was never something I pictured for myself. Never something I wanted, or maybe just never something I let myself want. I’ve spent so many years trying to control everything, and being a mother has always felt like the opposite of control. It’s pure surrender.