Chapter 3
Charley, Six Weeks Later
“How’s the program going?”
“Good, just hit the halfway mark,” I say before biting into my burger.
“Hell yeah,” Georgia quips. “What do you do after that?”
Taking a sip from my soda, I explain, “I’ll get CPR certified and have to pass the national certification exams.”
“Then you’ll be an EMT?”
I nod. “Pretty much. I mean, there’re a few more smaller steps, but yeah, I have a job waiting for me.”
“I’m so dang proud of you.” Georgia’s whole face lights up, and her smile is contagious.
“Thank you.” I’ll be glad when I’m done with everything. Juggling work and studying is not fun or easy. “How's house hunting going?”
She groans, rolling her eyes. “It’s not going much of anywhere.”
Huffing out a small chuckle, I ask, “How come?”
“Because everything available is not what I want,” she explains. “I don’t want another cookie-cutter house on a cookie-cutter block, where the houses are practically sitting on top of one another. I want space to breathe and have chickens.”
“Chickens?” I snort. “Since when do you want chickens?”
Waving me off, a small grin tugs on her lips. “Since Graham got some and I realized how fun they are, obviously.” Then, with a giggle, she adds, “But also, it would be so fun watching Fletcher collect eggs every morning.”
I chuckle, because that would be entertaining to watch.
Fletcher is Georgia’s stepbrother turned boyfriend—it’s not as weird as it sounds—and he’s a reformed pretentious rich boy now living a small-town life.
Although, my heart skips a beat, the hair on my arms standing on end, at the mention of Georgia’s other brother.
It’s been six weeks since we drunkenly hooked up, and just as long since I’ve been avoiding him.
I fully know I’m being ridiculous and behaving like a damn teenager scared of confrontation, but I don’t know what else to do.
I cannot bring myself to face him and talk about what we did together.
For one, I don’t think I could handle him brushing it off like it was a mistake—even though it was—and that it meant nothing to him, which has to be the case, because even though I’m actively avoiding him any chance I get, he’s not exactly making any effort to clear the air either.
But for two, I don’t trust myself to confront this and not do it again.
It’s absurd how over him I was until that night, and now it’s like the floodgates have been opened, and I don’t know how to close them.
I don’t know how to be around him again.
I’m seventeen all over again, and I hate it.
If I avoid Graham for long enough, then I’ll be able to get my feelings in check again. I’m sure of it.
Girl math, at its finest.
Pushing aside all thoughts of him and this mess I’ve put myself in, I say, “I don’t know. I can’t really see you being a chicken lady, Georg.”
“That’s rude. I’d make an excellent chicken lady, thank you very much.” Tipping her chin toward my plate, she asks, “Are you finished already? You’ve barely eaten.”
Blowing out a sigh, I sit back in the chair. “Yeah, I’ve been so freaking bloated lately. I just know if I eat too much, I’ll be miserable later.”
“That sucks.” Georgia wrinkles her nose. “Is it that time of the month?”
“Maybe? My period has been so out of whack lately, so who knows. I randomly got it a few weeks ago, way earlier than usual, but it was so light—like, almost not even there—and it went away that same day. Every part of my body is on board with the period, except my uterus.”
Finishing chewing, Georgia washes down the bite with a swig of sweet tea. “Have you ever been checked for PCOS? That sounds a lot like what I deal with.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m sure it’s from stress, dealing with work, and trying to get through this program.” And fucking your brother. “Besides, wouldn’t something like PCOS have been caught before now? Seems kind of late.”
“A lot of people don’t get diagnosed until they’re older, actually,” she offers. “It can be hard to diagnose, since so many of the symptoms overlap with other conditions. Who’s your gyno? Is it Dr. Mitchell?”
“Yeah.”
“Call the office. It’s worth at least talking to her about it.”
After we pay the bill and leave, I do just that, since Georgia’s got me all freaked out now.
The last thing I need is to discover something like this about myself, while my plate is already overflowing with stress.
Thankfully, she had a last-minute cancellation this afternoon.
Running home to change into something more comfortable and freshen up, I run a couple of errands before heading over to her office.
Once they’ve drawn my blood and made me pee in a cup, the nurse leaves me in a room with one of those god-awful paper gowns.
I don’t know what it is, but waiting for the doctor to come in when I’m basically wearing a sheet that opens in the front is way more awkward than it should be.
I’m not in here for more than five minutes when there’s a knock at the door and Dr. Mitchell pokes her head in before entering. “Hi Charley,” she greets with a warm smile as she sits down on the chair in front of her computer. “How are you? Other than the reason for your visit.”
“Oh, you know.” I huff out a dry laugh. “Living the dream.”
She humors me with a small laugh, clicking several times on her mouse before glancing over at me, legs crossed and her hands clasped together in her lap.
“Well, how about we get right to it.” Sounds promising.
“I was looking over your labs, and can tell you without any additional labs that the cause of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing is not from PCOS. ”
“That’s great!” I let out a sigh of relief, then tilt my head to the side and ask, “So, then what is it? Don’t tell me I’m already going through menopause.”
“No, Charley, you’re not going through menopause.” She chuckles. “Quite the opposite, actually.” Before she even continues, somehow, I know what she’s going to say. My chest tightens, stomach churning as I brace for it. “You’re pregnant.”
There it is.
A chill spreads through my body, settling in my bones and making me shiver before, suddenly, I’m burning up. Sweat beads across my brow, down the back of my neck, and it feels as if all the oxygen in the room has evaporated.
“That’s, uh…” I clear my throat. “That’s not possible, I have an IUD.”
“It is possible. No birth control is one hundred percent effective,” she offers, a lightness in her tone, either because she can’t see the panic written all over my face, or she can and she’s trying to calm me down. “I’d guess you are around eight weeks.”
My brows furrow. That’s not right. “I think it would actually be six weeks,” I explain, my heart beating a mile a minute. I feel like I could throw up. “That was when I had sex last, and before that, it was at least three months ago.”
Dr. Mitchell nods. “The due date is calculated by the first day of your last menstrual cycle, which, based on your last period, puts you at around eight weeks.”
Due date.
I have a due date…because there is a child, or an embryo, or whatever the hell it is, growing inside of me.
Sitting here and hearing that, it seems so obvious.
Everything I’ve been experiencing totally points to this, but it wasn’t even a thought in my brain…
like, at all. The walls close in on me as I focus on breathing.
This can’t be happening.
It just can’t.
When a few moments pass and I don’t say anything, Dr. Mitchell asks, “Would you like to discuss your options?”
My mouth is dry, and I don’t think I could get a word out, even if I knew what to say, so I nod.
“I want to start by saying that, no matter what, you’re not alone in this,” she says, smiling gently.
“My role here is to support you, provide information, and help you make the best decision for yourself. I know this is all a lot to take in, especially when it’s not something you were expecting.
You’re still pretty early on in the pregnancy, so you do have a few options.
” I already know what my options are—keep the baby, adoption, or abortion—but I’ve apparently lost my voice, so I let her explain them all to me anyway.
Once she finishes, she pauses before saying, “There is no right or wrong decision, Charley, only what feels right for you. You don’t have to decide today, and if you need time or have questions, I’m here to help.
Because you have a copper IUD inserted, I would like to perform an ultrasound today to confirm pregnancy implantation, and remove the IUD, if possible. ”
Dr. Mitchell then explains the risks of leaving it in, should I decide to go through with the pregnancy, as well as the risks that could come with removal.
Her tone is calm and reassuring through it all, but it’s nearly impossible to take in anything she’s saying with the pounding in my ears.
After I consent to the ultrasound, she confirms the IUD is, in fact, in place—it just must’ve decided to be silly, goofy and not work—and she’s able to remove it.
Throughout all of this, I’m doing my best to tamp down the nausea threatening to come up my throat, while also fighting back the tears that sting the backs of my eyes.
Once we’re finished, I redress, and then I’m on my way, with a bomb dropped on me and a handful of pamphlets, and not a fucking clue in the world about what I should do.
As soon as I’m alone in my car, the floodgates open, and moisture spills hot down my cheeks.
My chest heaves with deep, ragged breaths that never feel like enough.
How the fuck did this happen?
I’m usually so good about using condoms. Even with my ex-boyfriend, we always used them because neither of us were in a place where having kids felt like an option. And the one fucking time I don’t use one, I get pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
With Graham’s baby.
My bottom lip trembles as that really sinks in. I’m pregnant with Graham’s baby.
What the fuck am I going to do? I don’t even know if I want kids. Would I even know how to be a good mother? I’m not equipped to be responsible for another person’s life… I can’t even keep a plant alive.
Goddamnit.