45. Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Five
AVA
I sleep in, waking to a low, queasy twist in my stomach. Not enough to send me running to the bathroom, but enough to keep me hovering on the edge of nausea.
I carefully swing my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my palms to my thighs.
My fingers drum against my skin, already trying to justify one more day.
I don’t bother lying to myself this time.
I know better.
I pull on lightweight shorts and a soft shirt, tying my hair back in a ponytail. The mirror catches my face as I pass: pale, drawn, a flicker of something raw behind my eyes.
The boys are out for the summer now, and Miss Taylor took them to the park. A frog hunt and a brunch picnic, if I remember right.
The kitchen is quiet except for the whir of the dishwasher. Jackson is already up; I hear the rhythmic stretch and release of his resistance bands coming from the living room.
I set my laptop on the table, determined to bury myself in something productive.
Anything but that test.
I open the latest notes for Open Pages.
At the top it says: “Books on Wheels.”
Our new mobile library project. I skim the proposed routes again: underserved neighborhoods, church parking lots, community rec centers. I scroll past my drafted outreach emails to local schools and summer camps, trying to find my focus.
I type and delete the same sentence three times:
Our mission is to open pages and open futures.
Every sentence on the screen feels like it slides right through me, refusing to stick.
I picture the van: bright and welcoming, shelves lined with every color and shape of book. I imagine kids stepping up, eyes wide at the choices. Pages flipping under sticky fingers, stories hugged to small chests like treasure.
As I do so, the words start to flow more freely:
Our van isn’t just about borrowing books, it’s about giving them.
Every child who steps up to the shelves gets to choose a book to take home for good.
To keep under their pillow, trade with a friend, or read a thousand times until the pages curl.
Because literacy shouldn’t come with strings attached.
But even as the words take shape, my mind drifts. I wrap my hands around my mug, staring out the window, watching the morning sunlight play across the grass.
The thought of the test tugs at me, constant and relentless.
It would be so easy to get up, walk down the hallway, pick up the test.
But another day of not knowing feels safer. Another day where nothing has to change.
Not yet.
I take another sip, open a new email draft, and let myself have just one more day.
The soft sound of footsteps draws my attention from the screen. I look up to see Jackson standing in the doorway, his hair damp from a quick shower, a fresh wrap visible under the sleeve of his shirt.
He leans against the doorframe, watching me with those piercing but gentle eyes, searching in that quiet way of his.
“You’ve been at it for a while,” he says.
I close my laptop, pushing it slightly aside. “Just trying to get some words down for the van project.”
“How’s it coming?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen.
I hesitate. “Good... I think.” I force a small smile. “It helps to think about the kids, about what it might mean to them.”
His gaze lingers on me, longer this time.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.
I blink. “For what?”
“For everything,” he answers. His voice is rough, a hint of something else lurking beneath it.
I open my mouth to deflect, to say it’s nothing, but the words catch. My throat feels tight.
He takes a step closer.
“Ava,” he says, softer now. “Is there something you want to talk about?”
I freeze, gripping the edge of the table. I want to look away, but I can’t.
His eyes don’t waver. “I saw it,” he says gently.
At first I’m confused.
Then he says, “The test.”
The air feels like it leaves my lungs all at once. My stomach twists, deep and sudden.
I swallow hard. “You did?”
“I didn’t mean to...” he starts, his brow furrowing. “I came into the office one morning and saw the box. I wanted to wait… to give you space to come to me.”
My fingers tremble so badly I flatten them against my thighs to keep them still.
“I think… I might be pregnant,” I admit finally, the words so quiet they barely exist in the air between us. “I’ve been too afraid to take the test. I keep telling myself I’ll do it, but I can’t.”
A tear slips free, but I don’t bother to wipe it away.
“Everything in my life has already changed so fast,” I go on, my voice catching. “And I thought… maybe if I waited, I could hold on to how things are right now. Just a little longer.”
When I look up again, he’s closer, his eyes warm and steady, like he’s trying to hold all of me together just by standing there.
“You’re not facing this alone,” he says, voice low and rough with emotion.
I blink at him, tears streaming down my cheeks now, unstoppable.
My lips tremble. I close my eyes as a sob slips out—quiet and sharp.
He exhales, then continues, “No matter what that test says, I’m here with you.”
A shiver runs through me, relief and terror twisting together. I drag in a shaky breath, nod, but the words won’t come.
He closes the final bit of space between us, his good hand reaching out slowly. He cups my jaw gently, his thumb brushing the tears from my cheek.
He knows the truth, and he’s still here. Still looking at me like I’m someone he wants to stand beside. And that changes everything. It doesn’t erase the uncertainty, but it gives me something stronger to lean on.
Relief washes in first, then gratitude, then a fragile sort of bravery that feels brand new.
“I know I can’t put it off forever.”
A tiny tremor passes through me as I glance at him. His gaze is steady, warm. A quiet anchor.
When I speak again, my voice is barely more than a whisper. “Will you... stay with me while I take it?”
His expression softens in a way that cracks something open in my chest. He nods, his thumb tracing small, steady circles against my fingers.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”