Chapter 2
TWO
TORI
Past
The faint glow of the moon filters through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the cold tiles. Everything feels still, like the world is holding its breath alongside me.
This is it. This has to be it.
I’m two days late for my period—always a good sign when trying to conceive.
Sure, it could be stress-related, but no. No.
This is it. I can feel it.
Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, I cannot wait to finally see that PREGNANT result on the digital test screen.
I picture the word lighting up in bold, happy letters, a beacon of hope that will finally change everything. My heart races at the thought.
I’ll make Chase all of his favorite things for breakfast, careful not to overcook the bacon or undercook the eggs, and then sit across from him at the table with a single cinnamon roll on my plate. Nothing else.
He’ll notice the differences in our plates—he will, won’t he? Yes, of course he will.
This is going to be perfect.
He’ll ask why I’m eating a cinnamon roll—more likely that he’ll ask why I didn’t give him a cinnamon roll.
Nope. No negativity.
He’ll just be curious. Only curious.
Not condemning. Not rude. Just curious.
And I’ll tell him, “Because I, Victoria Anne Martin, have a bun in my oven!”
We’ll laugh and we’ll cry and we’ll hug and everything will be perfect and wonderful.
He’ll be so happy, and he’ll stop being so ornery and negative about everything. He’ll see me and finally be excited about me again and we’ll be a real family, not just a couple.
This. Is. Going. To. Be. The. Best. Morning. Ever!
I’m running in place, trying and failing to suppress my squeal of excitement.
Wait. Gotta pee on the stick first, dummy.
I grab a water cup off the bathroom counter, shimmy my way to the toilet room, pop a squat, and empty my hCG-loaded bladder into it.
Whaddaya know? I didn’t even pee on my hand this time! Another good sign.
Walking back to the bathroom sink, I set the cup on the side and wash my hands before opening the test and placing it tab-side down in the liquid.
My hands tremble as I set it in place, like the weight of this moment is pressing down on me.
Three minutes. Shoot, I left my phone on the nightstand.
I sneak back into our bedroom, retrieve my phone from my side of the bed, set the timer for three minutes, and sprint to the bathroom once more.
Chase is still sound asleep and snoring, so I’m no longer worried about waking him with any noises I make. If that man doesn’t wake himself up with that freight train of a nose, there’s no way he’ll be disturbed by any sudden happy dances coming from the bathroom.
I’m pacing, biting my nails while I wait for three minutes.
Come on, come on.
I swear minutes are like hours. The timer ticks away, but every second feels like its own eternity.
As I pace, my mind wanders to various random places.
Why do people say things like, “We stared into each other’s eyes for minutes before finally succumbing to our passion”?
I can’t stare at anyone for more than five seconds before it gets weird. Do authors have no concept of time?
I wonder how many things I can think about in three minutes. Well, maybe two minutes and thirty seconds now.
What if the test is negative?
Nope. No, no, no not going there.
Positive thoughts. Only positive thoughts.
Positive. Positive. Math. Accounting.
I love accounting.
I’ll also love being a mother.
Why do accountants always feel positive?
Because they know how to add up the good things in life! Ba-dum-tss.
Nailed it.
My kid is going to be so friggin’ hilarious. With a mom like me they’re bound to be.
A positive attitude creates a positive feedback loop—just like in calculus!
Ohmyeverlovingbananas why the hell is this taking so long?!
I should look.
Yeah. I should totally look.
These tests don’t really take three minutes, right?
I mean, when Belle found out she was pregnant, the strip was instant.
Wham, bam, thank you ma’am; you’re having a baby, let’s party!
Ok. I’m doing it.
I’m walking toward the counter.
I’m looking at the test.
Shoot, it’s flipped so the screen side is down.
I’m pulling the test from the cup.
I’m turning it over.
The test is…
Negative.
Wait… what?
It feels like someone has punched me in the chest. The air escapes my lungs, leaving me hollow, empty.
But, how?
I’ve done everything right. I exercise every day. I drink copious amounts of water and haven’t touched caffeine in months. I take my vitamins, eat foods packed full of folic acid, take my temperature daily, and can literally pinpoint when I’m ovulating.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!
I set the test on the counter, bury my face in my hands, and cry. The sound of my sobs fills the small bathroom, echoing off the tiles as the reality of the moment crashes over me.
The weight of it all feels unbearable, suffocating.
I’m about to wash my face and crawl back into bed when the bathroom door opens and Chase walks in, dressed in only his boxer shorts and rubbing his hand over his buzzed hair.
The faint light from our bedroom window spills into the room, illuminating his disheveled figure. He doesn’t notice my state of distress; he just walks past me to the toilet, slapping my ass along the way.
Should I say something?
Point out yet another failure so that he can look at me with disappointment and make some passive-aggressive comment?
I’ve just finished washing my face when he walks up to the counter to wash his hands. I stare at him in the giant vanity mirror, waiting for any hint of acknowledgment, when he sees the test on the counter between our sinks.
The moment he registers the negative test result, his face transforms from half-awake to accusation and contempt.
Our eyes lock in the mirror as he says, “Another one? Are you fucking serious?”
Dropping my gaze to the counter, I don’t respond.
Chase scoffs, dries his hands, and heads to the closet, calling out over his shoulder, “You should go to the doctor and figure out what’s wrong.”
No sympathy. No shared grief.
No encouraging words of how we will get through this together or that it will happen when the timing is right.
Simply, accusation that this is my fault.
I need to figure out what’s wrong with me.
I’m the problem. I’m the failure. I’m the letdown.
Not him. Never him.
I stand in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, tears still streaking down my face.
The woman looking back at me is unrecognizable—exhausted, defeated, broken.
All I ever wanted was to be enough.
Enough for him. Enough for this.
But I’ll never be enough.