Chapter 4
Hold The Phone
Dr. Hansen steps into the room, his usual stoic expression firmly in place.
“Morning, Charlie.” He takes a seat on the stool beside me, tablet in hand. “How are you?”
“Good, thanks.”
“And your grandmother? She hasn’t been with you during your last few visits.”
I offer him a tight smile. “After her health scare a year ago, she decided to retire from the shop and move into Meadowbrook, Bluebell’s senior living complex. Thankfully, she’s doing much better now.”
Grams has been coming with me to my appointments since I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at sixteen, so not having her here has taken some getting used to. She’d still come if I asked, but she has her own health to think about.
My mom had me at nineteen. She met my dad while interning as a receptionist at a law office in Chicago.
He was fifteen years older, and when she first told him she was pregnant, he promised her the world.
Yet, a few weeks later, after coming home from a long business trip, he changed his mind and didn’t want anything to do with us.
My mom never heard from him again and never told anyone his name.
When I was five months old, she came back to Bluebell and left me with Grams, saying she wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of motherhood.
The last time we heard from her was eight years ago.
She was in France, dating a photographer and working as his assistant, while living in a studio apartment above a bakery in Paris.
The ironic thing is that what bothered me most wasn’t my mom leaving. It was knowing that my dad didn’t care enough to have a relationship with me, let alone ever meet me.
Still, I learned early on that Grams was the only family I needed. She’s always been more than enough, and I wouldn’t change that for anything.
“Good to hear your grandmother is doing better,” Dr. Hansen says. His brow tightens as he scans my chart. “Looks like it’s been four months since your last appointment. I’d really like to see that closer to every three.”
I shift on the exam table to meet his concerned gaze.
“I’m sorry, Doc. Things have been busy at the shop, and my insurance premiums went up again, so I’ve been trying to stretch out the time between appointments.
But lately, keeping my numbers in range has been more difficult, and I knew I couldn’t put off coming in any longer. ”
He gives a small nod as he glances at his tablet to review the blood glucose readings I provided to the nurse. “I understand, but coming in regularly is important, especially when you’re having trouble managing your numbers.”
“You’re right.” I admit sheepishly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “That’s why I’m here now,”
Dr. Hansen glances up at me. “Does your blood sugar tend to spike or drop at certain times of the day or after specific meals?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I’ve been tracking, but they’ve been totally unpredictable.”
“Any unusual fatigue, nausea, or other symptoms?”
“I’ve been more tired than usual, but it’s probably just all the late nights I’ve been putting in at the shop,” I explain.
The semi-annual clearance sale at my vintage shop, Timeless Threads, is coming up next week, so I’ve been working overtime sorting through inventory and pricing items. It’s hard to get much done during the day with customers popping in to dish about the latest town gossip.
There was a time when my friends and I were the subject of local chatter, thanks to Birdie constantly roping us into one of her many animal rescue missions or my so-called reckless driving.
I may clip the occasional mailbox or trash can when I’m running late, but compared to Earl, I’m a model citizen on the road.
He’s been Bluebell’s designated taxi driver for the past forty years, driving locals through town and shuttling visitors to and from Silver Saddle Ranch—the only tourist destination around.
They have several cabins that book out years in advance, keeping him busy year-round.
The trouble is that he drives like he’s racing a tornado and has advanced cataracts in his left eye.
Last year, the town council decided to look the other way when he ran over the mayor’s prized rose bushes. Despite his tendency to confuse the gas pedal with the brake, he’s a fixture in Bluebell, and there’s no replacing him, even if that means the occasional flower bed massacre.
“Charlie.” Dr. Hansen clears his throat as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Is there a chance you could be pregnant? It would explain the recent swings in your blood glucose as well as the other symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “No way. I’m on birth control, and I’ve only slept with one guy in the past six months. So, unless the moody cowboy has super sperm, there’s no chance I’m having his baby.”
Even as I try to dismiss the idea, a sliver of doubt creeps in.
I haven’t had a period in a while, but that’s not alarming with my irregular cycle. I also missed a couple of doses of my birth control right before Birdie’s wedding because of a bad sinus infection. At the time, it never occurred to me that it could be a problem.
In my defense, sleeping with Heath was an impulsive decision. I threw all caution to the wind for one night of poor judgment with the man I simultaneously can’t stand and find impossible to resist.
Dr. Hansen sets his tablet on the counter and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I understand, but I’d still like to rule it out as a precaution before we explore other reasons for the significant fluctuations in your readings.”
I shrug. “Okay, sure. Let’s do it.”
I’m not expecting him to wheel his stool over to the corner cabinet, pull out a pregnancy test, and hand it to me like it’s standard procedure. It probably is for him, but for me, I’m bracing for hidden cameras to pop out with someone from a prank show to shout, “Gotcha!”
“Oh.” I slowly reach for the test. “You want me to take it now? I was thinking I’d grab one on the way back to Bluebell, and if it’s positive, have an ugly-cry in a graffiti-covered gas station bathroom before giving myself a dose of insulin so I can demolish a cherry slushy.
” I flash Dr. Hansen a cheeky grin. “You know me. I’m just a touch dramatic. ”
He raises a brow, his eyes landing on my tee, which reads I Fight, Therefore I Am, with retro boxing gloves sketched below the words. It was one of the gems I unearthed from a pile of donations someone dropped off at the shop last week and pairs perfectly with my thrifted Doc Martens.
I prefer to wear clothes that reflect my current mood, and this morning I was ready to throw down after arguing with an insurance representative for an hour about why backup insulin and glucagon kits are medically necessary.
That was after getting into it with another representative a few months ago about why Dr. Hansen prescribed a new insulin pump.
It’s not like I asked for a chronic disease that could land me in diabetic ketoacidosis—or worse, an early grave—if mismanaged.
Dr. Hansen gets up and goes to open the door. “The bathroom’s three doors down on the left. Let Margaret know when you’re done, and we’ll go over the next steps based on the result. If it’s positive, we’ll order a blood hCG test to confirm.”
“All right, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I say as he leaves, disappearing around the corner.
I remain rooted to the spot, struggling to process our conversation and still half expecting this to be an elaborate prank. But when I finally get up and check the hallway, it’s empty, confirming that Dr. Hansen was dead serious about me taking the test and reporting back with the results.
My heart hammers in my chest as I go into the bathroom and shut the door.
I carefully unwrap the kit and scan the instructions. It seems straightforward enough—I pee on the stick and wait for the result—but it’s my first time taking a pregnancy test, and I don’t want to leave room for error.
The seconds tick by in slow motion as I follow the steps, relieved I downed a bottle of water on the drive here and didn’t have a chance to use the restroom before my appointment. Otherwise, my nerves would have made this a lot harder.
When I’m finished, I wash my hands and place the pregnancy test on the counter.
I set a five-minute timer on my phone. The instructions say to wait three, but a couple of extra minutes can’t hurt. I’m almost certain it will be negative, but now that Dr. Hansen’s planted the idea in my head, I have to be sure.
I start pacing the small space, eyes glued to the timer, until a text snaps me out of my hyper-focused daze.
Backroads & Bad Decisions Group Chat
Wren sent a photo
It’s Lottie with her hands on her hips, grinning to show off a space where her two front teeth should be.
Birdie: OMG, that gap is adorable!
Briar: How is she losing teeth already? I swear it was just yesterday when you were sending videos of her learning to walk!
Wren: Right? I can’t believe my little girl is almost seven.
Charlie: Two teeth in one day? That calls for a jackpot from the tooth fairy.
Wren: Rumor is that funds are low, so she’s accepting donations. *wink emoji
I can’t help but wonder if there’s more truth to that statement than she wants us to believe.
The four of us have been friends since kindergarten and were inseparable through high school.
I figured we’d all stay in Bluebell forever until Wren dropped the bombshell that she was moving to Florida with Cole, her boyfriend.
They had Lottie shortly after, and I knew she wasn’t coming back.
It’s a good thing we have our group chats to keep us connected through blurry photos, chaotic message threads, and way too many unhinged voice notes at ungodly hours.
Birdie: Hypothetically, would Lottie consider a puppy a fair trade for her teeth?
Briar: Birdie rescued a litter of beagles and has already guilt-tripped the barista at Lasso & Latte and the crossing guard at the elementary school into becoming dog parents.
Birdie is an animal activist who takes in every abandoned animal she finds and constantly tries to rope us all into adopting. I’m the only one who’s managed to resist her persuasion, but I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time before I cave too.
Charlie: As Lottie’s self-appointed godmother, I’m putting my full support behind her getting a puppy.
Birdie: We could turn it into a cross-country delivery.
Charlie: I call shotgun!
Wren: As much as Lottie would love your plan, Cole isn’t a fan of dogs.
Charlie: I knew something was wrong with him.
Wren: Be nice.
Charlie: What? Anyone who doesn’t like puppies can’t be trusted.
Birdie: Says the person who hates cats.
Charlie: I’m allergic! If I go near one, my eyes puff up like balloons.
The one downside of having a friend who rescues kittens for a living is dodging all the cuddle attempts when I visit so I don’t end up looking like I went ten rounds with a swarm of bees.
Why couldn’t Birdie have started a dog-only rescue—or better yet, not taken in every stray that shows up on her doorstep?
It’s a real hardship having a saint as one of my best friends.
The sudden blare of my alarm startles me, nearly sending my phone flying out of my hand.
“No way it’s time already,” I mutter under my breath.
I glance at the pregnancy test on the counter, but don’t move closer to read the result. I’m choosing blissful ignorance for a little while longer over finding out if my world is about to be turned upside down.
With diabetes, spontaneity is already a luxury I can’t afford, so I thrive on small acts of rebellion—ordering red velvet lattes with extra whipped cream, eating pizza on the first Friday of every month, and binge-watching Schitt’s Creek while eating hot Cheetos straight from the bag at 10 p.m.
If I’m pregnant, life suddenly becomes more complicated—not just with managing my chronic illness, but because the freedom I enjoy so much would disappear.
Late-night animal rescue missions with the girls and impulsive bar hookups would have to take a back seat.
Not that I’ve had one of those in ages. Nope, instead I went for the reckless option and slept with the older cowboy I’ve been sparring with for years, and now I’m paying the price.
God, I can’t even imagine telling Heath he’s going to be a dad. I can already picture him—arms crossed, scowling—asking how he can be sure it’s his. Ugh, I’m already outraged by the response I’ve scripted for an announcement that probably won’t ever happen.
I’ve handled challenging situations before and come out the other side just fine on my own.
In high school, when money was tight, I worked at the local diner, and when Grams couldn’t run the shop anymore, I took over.
So, if by some chance I am pregnant, I’ll take it in stride and figure it out as I go. That’s what I do best.
I shake my head, dragging a hand across my face.
Why am I wasting energy stressing over something that’s not going to happen?
I’m about to confirm I’m not pregnant, and all this worrying will have been for nothing.
With a surge of confidence, I stride to the sink and pick up the test. I take a deep breath before looking down, my heart skipping a beat as my eyes land on the result.