Chapter 13 Aurora
AURORA
I pace the floor of the bathroom, gnawing on my fingernails as Brady chatters on the other end of the phone.
As the clock in my head ticks down loudly from five minutes to zero.
“I think I really impressed them, Auri. They even talked about some big investors. This is, like, top inside info, and they shared it with me. I’m sure it helped that I played one of the best games of my life.”
“Wow, B.” I keep my voice low and dart my eyes to the door as if I can see Mabel asleep under her duvet. “That’s great.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“I am. I just haven’t fully woken up yet.”
“This could be my big break. You could at least pretend to be stoked.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s the jet lag.”
“It’s been over two weeks. You should be adjusted by now.”
I huff a dry laugh. “Probably.”
“Are you, like, okay? You sound moody as hell.”
“I’m sorry.”
My shoulders droop. He’s right. I’m being rude. He doesn’t deserve this. I open my mouth to apologize again, but I hear a timer sound on his end. The test.
“Time’s up. What’s it say?”
I stare hard at the door and work to control my breathing as his two words echo in my head. Time’s up. His voice is eager, but it rings ominous in my ears.
Time’s up.
Time’s up.
Time’s up.
Twice, I try to force myself to look at the bathroom counter. Twice, I fail.
“Aurora. Hello? What’s it say?”
I clamp my eyes shut and shake my head, my hand tightening around the phone clutched to my ear.
“It says...” I turn slowly, eyes still closed toward the bathroom counter. Time’s up. “Um...”
He sighs, loud and annoyed, and I flinch.
“Two lines mean pregnant, Auri, even if the second line is faint. It’s not that hard. I told you we should have done a video call.”
My lungs hurt, and I force myself to breathe. That’s the one, he’d said. The last time we had sex, he was certain. That’s the one. What if he was right? What if I am? What now?
Time’s up, he said.
What if it is?
I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I shouldn’t feel like I’m drowning. Like the padlock to my cage is about to be welded shut. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I do, and it hurts so badly.
My inhale is shaky when I force myself to open my eyes. Tears well as I stare into the mirror at my reflection. What a mess. I swipe at my cheeks with the hand not threatening to crush the cell phone.
What have I done?
Suffocating.
I’m suffocating.
“Aurora. What the hell. Are you there? What’s it say?”
I clear my throat. “I’m here.”
“Hold on. I’m going to video call.”
“No.” I clear my throat again. “No, it’s okay. I can read it.”
“If you’re struggling, then I can—”
“No.” The word comes out louder and more forceful than I intended, and I rush to fix it. “It’s fine. It’s okay. I said I can read it.”
“Fine. So what does it say?”
I search my reflection as if searching for a way out. I find none. My face has drained of color; the green in my watery eyes pops against the red rims, and all I see is loss. My stomach falls to my feet, and I finally turn my attention to the pregnancy test.
I focus on the narrow blue end first and count the grooves in the plastic. Four, with a slight, rounded indentation for a thumb to grip. User-friendly design, I suppose.
Then I move to the brand logo displayed on the white. The gray block lettering is plain and inoffensive, but it brings a scowl to my face. Resentment bubbles inside me, bile climbing in my throat, and I feel like I might vomit.
Brady groans, and I flinch. As if his voice serves as a physical shove, my eyes jerk forward, stumbling to the two small rectangles meant to deliver my sentence. Judge and jury.
I’m not ready, but who am I kidding? I’ll never be ready.
I exhale slowly through my nose and let my eyes focus on the results.
I read them twice through the water in my eyes.
I fit my thumb into the perfect indentation on the narrow, blue end, and bring the test closer to my face, blinking to clear my vision of tears so I can read the results a third time before they blur again.
I make certain I’m reading it correctly.
Make certain my tear-flooded eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.
“One line.” It escapes on an exhale that’s followed by a choked sob. “Negative. I’m not pregnant.”
Brady swears on the other end of the phone, but I barely hear him over the sound of my rapid heartbeat and labored breathing.
With trembling fingers, I bury the test at the bottom of the bathroom trash and pile a handful of tissues on top of it for good measure.
As soon as it is out of view, I drop into a squat and put my head between my knees.
One line. Negative.
Time’s not up.
I still have time.
“It’s okay, Auri.”
Brady’s voice fades in and out as I work to settle myself, the adrenaline of my panic bleeding from my body like air leaking from a punctured tire. My hands shake and my cheeks start to cool as the tears slow.
“Don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
He doesn’t mean it. I’ve heard this tone hundreds of times before. Like the people who used to tell me my family’s accident wasn’t my fault. Placating, borderline patronizing, and completely fake.
It makes me feel worse for a multitude of reasons, but the most jarring is I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because I’m relieved, and he has no idea.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
I wipe my eyes again and take steadying breaths through my nose. Guilt, once again, swirls in my stomach, and I try to fight off the nausea. I’m a terrible wife. I shouldn’t be feeling this way, especially not when he thinks I’m feeling the opposite.
“I’m okay, B. Really.”
“Maybe we should see a nutritionist? You don’t always eat the best. You should cut back on sugar and starches. I’ve been doing some research, and if we want to get pregnant, you have to take better care of yourself.”
I frown and stare hard at the tile floor as I attempt to process what he just said.
He can’t mean...
“You just said it isn’t my fault.”
He sighs. “It’s not. But it’s your body. Have you thought of working out?”
I scoff. It’s quiet, nearly a mere puff of air, but he hears it, and he sighs again. Louder. More frustrated. Angry.
“This isn’t a joke, Aurora.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I’m just saying that if this was something you really wanted for us, you’d be watching what you eat and working out more.”
I drop back onto my butt, the cold floor seeping through the thin fabric of my pajama pants, and stare at the brown wooden shelves under the sink.
“How do you know it’s not you?” I ask, defeat and defensiveness warring in my head.
“I drink protein shakes. I take supplements. I work out.”
“Watching sports on television doesn’t make you an athlete, Brady. You can’t work out by osmosis.”
I don’t realize how harsh I sound until the words have already left me. My husband goes silent, and regret fills me. I squeeze my eyes shut and run my fingers through my sleep-mussed hair.
“I’m sorry. That was mean.”
“Yeah, it was. You don’t have to take your guilt out on me.”
My eyes snap open. Guilt.
He knows? He knows I’m relieved? That I’m having second thoughts?
“What do you mean?” I ask tentatively, my voice choked with nerves. He must pick up on my worry because his next statement is soft and gentle. Like how you’d speak to a child.
“I get that you feel bad for not taking this seriously and letting yourself go, but you’re being unfair to me.”
“What? Unfair to you? Letting myself go?”
“Auri, come on. You know what I’m saying.”
“I don’t, actually. Please elaborate.”
He sighs yet again. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say it. Say it, Brady.”
“You’ve gained a lot of weight since we got married. Really since we got engaged, but even more since we got married.”
I feel like I’ve been punched, and all it does is make me want to swing back harder.
“I’ve gained twenty pounds, and part of that is regaining what I lost after my parents and brother died. Remember that? When they fucking died, and I was depressed and stopped fucking eating?”
“You don’t have to swear at me, Aurora.”
“Oh, I’ll say whatever the fuck I want, Brady.”
“Jesus, if I knew you’d react like this, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“How the fuck did you think I’d react when my husband, someone who is supposed to love me unconditionally, someone who knows everything I’ve been through, told me I’d let myself go?”
“I thought you’d apologize and see reason, not make excuses. The weight you’ve gained isn’t just from what you lost when you were sad. You’re bigger than you ever were, and it’s been years. It sucks that they were in an accident, but you can’t blame that anymore.”
When I was sad.
When. I. Was. Sad.
I grit my teeth as tears once again flood my eyes, falling into tracks that haven’t yet dried.
These tears are different, though. They’re hot and angry.
They burn. If I wasn’t huddled on the floor of this bathroom in a suite I’m sharing with someone else, I’d probably be shouting.
I’d probably be pacing and irate. I take a deep breath, but my voice is still shaking when I speak in a harsh, strained whisper.
“I wasn’t just sad, Brady. I was depressed. And it wasn’t just an accident. My whole family fucking died. They’re dead. I will never see them or speak to them again. I lost everything—”
“You didn’t lose everything. Don’t be dramatic. We gave you everything you needed.”
“You weren’t my family, Brady! Your parents are great, but they aren’t my parents. It’s not the same thing.”
“Wow. Wow, Aurora. Not your family? That’s a fucked-up thing to say, considering my parents put a roof over your head and paid for everything you needed.”
“Oh, please. Your parents didn’t pay for shit. Uncle Wade paid for everything.”