10. Hailey
CHAPTER 10
hailey
I wake up to someone driving an icepick through my skull repeatedly. I groan as I throw my arms over my eyes to shield them from the light coming through my window. I know that given the time, Graham has already left the room, and I miss him immediately. I love waking up with his big body wrapped around mine. Rolling over so that my back is to the window, I squint my eyes open slightly, letting them slowly adjust to the light.
A white piece of lined paper rests on the empty pillow next to me, and I fumble with shaky fingers to get it open. Graham’s handwriting fills the space.
Hails,
You looked so beautiful and peaceful that I didn’t want to wake you. I enjoyed you last night and I didn't want to leave. I hope you slept in for a change. See you tonight.
Xo G.
I’m so incredibly in love with this man. Everything else is so complicated when the two of us together are the simplest, most easy thing in the world. As much as I fantasized about what being with Graham Colson would be like, I never could have imagined the connection we have found. It’s not just sex, it’s two people who deeply care about one another, and found companionship, trust, and at least on my part, love.
I’ve almost told him so many times, but I can’t. He has so much on his shoulders, and I don’t want to throw a grenade into this life that he’s worked hard to create. If he wanted me, he would tell me. If he loved me, he would tell me.
Us being out as a couple would jeopardize his relationship with my parents—his best friend—plus how would Mila feel? I’m in their space and she and I have become so close, but she doesn’t exactly have to share me with her dad.
I set his note on the bedside table and sit up just as a wave of nausea slams into me with all the force of a tsunami. My headache persists, and I decide that maybe soaking in the shower will wash away whatever I’m coming down with. Stress? Anxiety?
But after taking a shower, the hot water and steam making me feel worse, I step out and dry off with a towel. Bracing myself on the edge of the counter, I let my eyes shutter closed and try to slowly breathe through the waves. When I stand up, I open the drawer to pull out my pack of birth control pills and stare at them, cocking my head.
Oh. Fuck.
I do a quick calculation, realizing that I should have had my period two weeks ago. I’ve been so preoccupied that I didn’t even notice. Dropping the pack back in the drawer like it burned me, I look at my naked body in the mirror. I lift the heavier weight of my breasts in each hand, feeling them and squeezing lightly, wincing at the sting of pain it brings. Turning to the side, I run my palm over the soft, flat expanse of my stomach, trying to imagine it expanding with life.
Holy fucking shit I might be pregnant.
Not able to wait, I throw on a pair of leggings, sneakers, and a baggy sweatshirt. I chug a glass of water and then grab my keys to drive into town with only one location on my mind. I could call Emma or Lily to go through this with me but that feels disrespectful to Graham. My nerves get the best of me, my hands shaking slightly. Fuck, if I’m pregnant with Graham’s baby, what would that mean for me? For us? Mila? His relationship with my dad? My job prospects and maternity leave? Everyone in town would look at Graham as a predator. I’m closer in age to Mila than I am to him. And the distillery that he loves so much. Would this be a big enough scandal that he could lose his job?
My brain spirals as I try to find truth where I can. No one is batting an eye at the age difference between Wes and Lily, and he stalked her before she fell in love with him. And Emma is in a committed relationship with three men who share her. Graham and I are two consenting adults. I’m at least in love with him. It’s fine. Everything will be fine. Plus, I may not even be pregnant.
I pull into the grocery store and nearly tumble out of the car to get inside, hoping like hell I don’t run into anyone I know with a pregnancy test in my hand. Practically jogging down the aisle, I find what I’m looking for and am immediately overwhelmed with options. Why the hell are there so many different types? I quickly settle on a basic two lines for positive and one for negative and haul ass to checkout, constantly looking over my shoulder like I’m a thief in the night rather than an adult woman.
I quickly scan my item, noticing that they’re out of plastic bags at self-checkout. Fuck. I look around, and rather than calling Melinda over to help like the sweet woman she is, I pay and rush out of the store—directly into my mother.
The blood rushes from my face, a high-pitched ringing blaring between my ears, making the headache worse.
“Hailey! What are you doing here in the middle of the day?”
I slide my hand behind my back, slipping the box into my slouchy hobo bag.
“I could say the same to you, Mother Dearest. I was looking for something, but they were out of stock.”
“Oh? What was it?”
“Uhm. Starfruit. Mila has been wanting to try some.”
The lie slips easily through my teeth bewildering even myself.
“Hmm. Well, I can come back later. Let’s head to the house so you can help me with a few things for Sunday.”
“As delightful as that sounds, I have things to do, so I’m going to have to pass.”
“Oh, it can wait. I’m leaving next week, Hailey, you’re really going to skip an opportunity to spend time with your mother?”
Yes. Yes, I would love to do that, actually. But I’m a people pleaser, so I nod my head and force a smile on my face.
“Sure. Let’s head to your house.”
She gives me her flawlessly perfected fake smile—that she’s somehow convinced herself is authentic and meaningful, when really, the contortion of her face confuses people. I had a high school boyfriend ask me once if she was well after picking me up for a dance.
About halfway to my parents’, my bladder starts to protest, reminding me of the predicament that I’m in. Once I’m reluctantly inside, I excuse myself to the downstairs restroom, hopping from toe-to-toe, doing my best to tell my bladder to calm down for a moment. Shit. I really don’t want to wait to get back to Graham’s this afternoon. Then I’ll have Mila with me, and homework, dinner, and Graham . . .
Fuck it.
Pulling out the box, I rip it open, grabbing a test and shoving the box back into the bottom of my bag. I do a quick read-through of the fairly straightforward instructions, wiggle out of my leggings, and pee on the test pad of the stick. I cap the test, laying it flat on the counter while I continue to relieve myself of all the fluid I chugged to prepare for this very moment.
After washing my hands, I sit on the floor and wait. I’m oddly calm compared to this morning when I realized this could even be a possibility. Whatever the test says, I’ll deal with it. All morning I’ve been thinking about how being pregnant could impact everyone, but I haven’t thought about how I’ll feel if it says I’m not. The idea of being pregnant with a baby that I created with Graham fills me with an abundance of joy. Will I be disappointed if I’m not? Even if that disappointment would be wildly misplaced.
Checking my phone, I take a steadying breath before standing, bracing my hands against the cool countertop and looking down.
Two very bright lines are looking back at me.
I’m pregnant.
I stuff the test under a bunch of trash in the wastebasket and, body on autopilot, leave the bathroom to greet my mother with a fake smile and help her wrap my father’s gifts. Her voice is muffled, as if I’m underwater looking up at her, so I just nod and focus on the task at hand. After I feel like enough time has passed, I tell her that I have to get an errand in before picking up Mila from school, and with a fake frown, she lets me go.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur, and I let Mila know that I’ve been battling a migraine. When a text comes through from Graham that he’ll be home late, for the first time since I’ve known this man, I feel relief.
Nighttime comes, and after getting ready for bed, I make a decision—I slip the pink scrunchie onto my wrist, and with my PJs on, crawl under the blankets. So lost and unsure of everything the future holds.