32. Ginger
32
GINGER
G od, I knew the moment Jackson looked at me like he wanted nothing more than to touch me that my dad would read what’s between us.
But when he got distracted by the phone call, I thought, just maybe, we were safe.
Now, he storms in and points at them, and it’s clear that he knows.
What kind of conversation did he have with Sheriff Bentley? Has he taken Kaleb’s statement? I’m sure he’s said horrible things about me and my behavior, including how I was asking for it.
Did he talk about all the secret hookups between me, Jackson, Sawyer, and Ashley?
Would the sheriff relay that to my dad? Would he break my confidence like that? Invade my privacy?
It’s the only thing about this town that I don’t like.
Even though I’m an adult. A mother. People still feel the need to tell my father my business.
It’s too much after the day I’ve had.
Nausea roils through me, bending me over in the middle. I brace a hand on my stomach and will myself not to puke all over my kitchen floor.
A flush of heat takes over my skin, tightening it until I want to crawl out of it. It makes me dizzy.
I slow my breathing, willing my body to quit overreacting, but it’s hard.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I dart to my bathroom, pushing past my father’s outstretched arm, and lock myself inside in time to puke in the toilet. Retching a handful more times, I slump next to the toilet and wait for the sour feeling cramping my stomach to go away.
The door handle jiggles, followed by a soft knock. “Honey. Let me in.”
Pulling air in through my nose, I close my eyes.
“Tell me what’s going on. Please, honey.” The worry in Dad’s voice breaks my heart, but I can’t open the door to him. Not right now. Not with everything all mixed up inside me.
I feel terrible, but I don’t want him here. “Go away.”
“ Ginger… ” His heartbreak is a physical force against my chest.
“Please. Just go away.” I lean over and curl up on the mat in front of my sink.
Soft shuffling outside the door doesn’t sound like he’s retreating.
“Hey, Ginger. Can you let just one of us in? It doesn’t matter who.” The fact that my dad conceded to Jackson says a lot.
Tears burn in my chest and behind my eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“I don’t think any of us can do that until we know you’re all right.”
I pull in a few deep breaths. “Dad?”
“Yes, honey.”
“I need you to pick Gracie up from school and feed her dinner.”
A small stretch of silence threatens to send my thoughts spinning. “Of course, honey.”
He must see the time. It’s almost time for school to let out. He sighs, and more rustling between the four of them in my bedroom reaches me under the door.
“Ginger.” Sawyer’s low, gravely voice begs me to open the door to him, to crawl into his lap and let him hold me, but I can’t do it.
My instinct to shut everyone out and be alone is too strong. I curl in tighter on myself and prepare to wait.
Every time I tell them to go away, it hurts them, which hurts me, and I’m just done.
Closing my eyes, I tune the world out, focusing on my breath and the strange cramping in my abdomen. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt ill.
Especially ill like this. A sinking sensation of deja vu hits me.
The last time I felt this kind of emotional turmoil, the last time I’d vomited this way…was when I found out I was pregnant with Gracie.
But was that ick from the pregnancy or the emotions? Or were they linked?
I shake my head against my bathroom rug. I can’t let the what-ifs win. I have to figure this out.
When I finally sit upright, I pull my phone out to check the time. A little after five. I’ve been curled up on the floor for a long time. Hours.
Carefully and quietly, I pop the bathroom door open to peer into my bedroom. It’s mostly dark and completely empty.
I creep into the living room and see its empty, too, a lone light shining in the kitchen, but they all did as I asked. They’ve gone away. Left me alone.
Now, I need access to a test. I don’t want to leave to get one. I don’t have any of those delivery apps—I’ve never needed one—and I can’t ask anyone to get a test for me.
Fuck.
I rub my face and lean against the hallway wall.
Wait. Do I still have one from the last time I had this scare three years ago? Is it even still any good?
I look it up on my phone. Well, shit, it might be bad. If I can even find it.
Searching through the mess under my bathroom sink, I’m surprised by how much weird shit I have under here. How many loofahs does one woman need to own? Ten or more, apparently. I also have three half-opened body washes, a stack of half-used eyeshadow palettes, and a tub of Epsom salts.
What the hell, Ginger?
But I find the box in the back left corner behind my stack of tampons. The box is open, but one lone test is waiting inside, still sealed.
I tear it open and pee on it. Setting it on the counter, I put up a timer on my phone and pace the bathroom for a whole thirty seconds before I start a loop around the inside of my house.
This can’t be what’s happening. Right?
There’s no way I can be pregnant. I mean, sure, I’ve been having a lot of sex. We haven’t been using condoms. But I have an IUD. Those are ninety-nine percent effective.
But as I dive into thoughts of the effectiveness of my IUD, my phone’s timer goes off, and I swipe it away.
I know that antibiotics can negate birth control of all types. I’m not on any of the listed medications that interact with my IUD, though.
Then, I stop.
St. John’s Wort? Are they serious? It’s in a few of my regular tea blends.
Oh no. It can’t have that much of an effect on my birth control. Right?
Right?
I’m so screwed.
Time to face the music. At least with myself.
Forcing my feet to take me back to my bathroom and that little pee stick on my counter, I hover over it.
Finally building up the courage, I grab it and turn it over, revealing a clear blue plus sign in the window.
I am pregnant.