Bad Boy I Can't Resist

22. Theyre Alive #2

Gran leans her hip against the counter, crossing her arms over her flour-dusted apron. "You fell asleep on the porch chair at noon on Tuesday. You poured your morning coffee straight down the sink yesterday. You said the roast chicken smelled like copper on Thursday."

Gran lists details in rapid succession. I shake my head, rubbing my temples. "I have been stressed, Gran. The lease, Victor Hargrove, Jax... it has been a long month."

"Stress does not make a woman despise the smell of peach turnovers," she states softly.

I drop my hand from my forehead. I look at her, a sudden defensive energy spiking in my chest. "I am just exhausted. I am going to rest."

Gran gives a single, slow nod and turns back to the stove. "Go rest, Nora."

I leave the kitchen, walking fast down the hallway.

I pause outside my father’s door. The wood is cracked open an inch. I peek through the gap. He lies on his side, his eyes closed, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest moving the blue quilt.

So much for wanting to fight Stanley, I muse to myself with a small smile. I pull the door shut gently, ensuring the latch clicks without a sound.

I walk to my bedroom at the end of the hall, push the door open, and shut it behind me. The room is quiet, the afternoon sun heating the floorboards.

I figure I need a shower to wash the residual feeling of Stanley’s presence off my skin, so I can rest well and, later, after the nap, I will go down to the salvage yard. I will find Jax, if he’s back, and thank him.

With the thought in mind, I walk into the attached bathroom. I turn the brass handles of the shower, letting the hot water hit the porcelain tub, the steam rising to fog the small square window.

I pull the hem of my cotton shirt over my head and drop it onto the bath mat. I unbutton my denim shorts, pushing them down my legs and kicking them aside.

I stand in front of the vanity mirror, watching as the glass clouds at the edges from the steam. I clean the center of the mirror and step back to look at my reflection.

It may be my imagination, but my breasts are full and heavier than usual. I brush my fingers against my collarbone, letting my hand drop lower, and immediately notice that the sides of my breasts ache with a bruised sensitivity.

Even my nipples feel tight and painfully tender against the friction of my own palm.

I turn to the side and notice that my stomach also carries a distinct, low curve, and a firm roundness sits right below my navel. I look bloated and feel sluggish. This only happens when my period is close.

But the minute I think about that, I remember that I should have gotten my period days ago if I’m not making a mistake.

My brow furrows as I start counting backward.

Today is Friday. The first of the month, and if the calculation is right. I am nearly four weeks late.

The blood drains from my face. My heart kick-starts in my chest, and I brace both hands against the edge of the porcelain sink, my fingers slipping on the damp surface.

I drop to my knees on the cold tile floor, reaching for the bottom cabinet door beneath the vanity in a blind rush.

This can’t be happening. I think as I pull the wooden door open, bypass the extra towels and the spare shampoo bottles, and reach into the back left corner.

My fingers close around the familiar rectangular cardboard box. I always keep one; it has been a safety net since Clara.

I rip the cardboard tab open, tearing the paper straight down the middle. I pull the foil packet out, bite the edge, and rip the plastic seal. The plastic stick falls into my palm.

I stand up, use the toilet, and hold the stick in the stream before setting it on the edge of the sink, right next to the brass faucet.

I drop back onto the floor tiles, pulling my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms tight around my shins. The shower water rains against the tub, filling the small room with a thick cloud of white steam. The air smells of wet porcelain and the sharp mint of the toothpaste on the counter.

I rest my chin on my knees, staring at the plastic stick.

The three minutes of waiting feel like an eternity.

I force myself to stand, noticing that my legs feel heavy. I grab the edge of the sink, pull myself up, and look down at the small plastic window.

It had two solid, dark pink lines.

Positive.

I sit down against the front of the wooden cabinet, the cold tile hitting my bare skin. The sounds in the bathroom press against my eardrums.

I am pregnant?

All of a sudden, the diner in Houston fills my mind. The Formica table. The absolute coldness in Stanley’s eyes when I told him. The way he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his checkbook, and put a price tag on a heartbeat to save his own reputation.

I wrap my arms tighter around my legs, my nails digging into my own calves as the sound of the rain echoes in my head. The loose rubber tread on the stairs. The sharp, cracking sound of the pine baluster.

I think of the hospital. The yellow plastic curtain. The indifferent beep of the monitor.

I think of eleven minutes. I think of the tiny bundle under the blue hospital blanket. I think of the red fuzz against my thumb.

I think of Clara.

I press the heels of my hands against my closed eyes until sparks of white light flash behind my eyelids as I finally think of Jax and what he would say when I tell him.

Yes, he has asked to take things further. He had defended me and shared in my pain. He seems ready to see things through.

But a baby? I’m not sure how he will handle that.

Would the weight of it change how he looks at me? Would he pull away? Would this be the end of anything that’s budding? Would he pretend to be happy, masking his resentment behind his stoic jaw? Would he be furious that the one boundary he couldn't protect me from was the one inside my own body?

I have to tell him. He has a right to know immediately. And I have the right to know where I stand.

But I can't look at his face.

I can't stand in the salvage yard, look into those storm-blue eyes, and watch the realization hit him. I can't watch him process the disruption of his life. I can't survive seeing him pull away from me.

I reach a hand up to the counter, my fingers searching the smooth surface until they brush against the cold metal edge of my phone.

I pull it down into my lap. The screen illuminates, throwing a harsh blue glare against the steam of the bathroom.

I open my messages. I scroll past the texts from the feed store, past the updates from Gran. I click on his name. Rowe.

We have never texted. Every important word between us has been spoken face to face. So the message thread is completely blank.

My thumb shakes as it hovers over the glass keyboard.

I tap the letters. Slowly. One by one.

I'm late.

I hit the spacebar. The blinking cursor waits. I type the next sentence, the words blurring together as the first tear breaks loose and smudges the glass screen.

I think I might be pregnant.

I stare at the blue bubble and press send.