Chapter 8 #2
At first, I hear nothing but my own breath and footfalls against the packed road.
Then, although faint at first, there’s the steady sound of him chasing after me.
He doesn’t pull even; instead, he stays a few strides behind.
Close enough to feel his presence, far enough to give me space, understanding the doors we opened and my need to gain some distance. Maybe he needs it too.
Laughter rises in my throat as I push harder, feeling the thrill of the moment.
I’m flying. Free. Having fun. No second-guessing or hesitating.
It’s how I felt on the ice yesterday. For these few stolen miles, nothing else exists as we charge up the road in this unnecessary but entirely wonderful race.
As we near the cabin’s snowy drive, I hear his breathing deepen, feel his effort to close the final distance. I call over my shoulder, “Nice try, bud. You’re not catching me today.”
But as I turn, my foot catches on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. I lose my balance, my body sliding backward. Before I hit the ground, strong arms wrap around me, pulling me into a solid, unyielding chest.
“I’ve got you.”
His breath falls into rhythm with mine, fog curling in the frosty air between us. He leans in, mint and warmth brushing my neck, and a different kind of shiver runs through me.
My mind goes blank, and I stand there in his arms.
Breathing. Pretending. Wishing.
I feel the pull of his breath as he inhales, then the soft warmth as he releases it against my skin. My hands tighten on his jacket, and he responds by pulling me in even closer.
“Good catch.” I push away, chest heaving to suck in air.
How do I train my body to understand how inappropriate this reaction is? What was that conditioning study I learned about in undergrad psych? Pavlovian something?
My feet pound the final stretch up the icy driveway, desperate to escape. I grip the rough wooden railing on the porch and allow myself one look back at James, standing where I left him.
The elegant slope of his nose tilted toward the sky. His hand is running through his hair. His profile is painted in a beam of sunlight.
What could happen—
If these tests are negative—
If my options are wide open—
I learned long ago not to count on hope, and I don't stop until I'm inside the bathroom door locked behind me.
With trembling fingers, I pull out the pregnancy tests—several, to be sure.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I unwrap them, use them one by one, and line them on the counter to develop before stepping into the shower.
Hot water cascades over my skin, scalding and soothing all at once, but it does nothing to stop me from spiraling.
The absurdity of it all crashes into me, fierce and unrelenting. Who invites another man along to buy pregnancy tests? Who plays stupid games and spills truths to someone you just met, when you can’t even bring yourself to tell your closest friend?
My father’s voice echoes: “Sydney, you are an Allistair. Act as such.”
Despite the hot water, my body never warms. I don’t dare close my eyes because I know whose handsome face I’d see. The timer buzzes. All I have to do is open the door and see the results.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Steam curls as I step out of the shower and grab a towel, my eyes zeroing in on the eight undeniable pink lines.
The tests sit on the counter. Merciless in their clarity.
Pregnant.
The word echoes, deafening in the silence.
I press the heel of my palm to my chest, trying to slow the panic gathering there, but my breath comes in short, shallow bursts.
Too fast. Too tight. The bathroom feels smaller with each inhale.
Cold tiles bite into my knees as I collapse, pressing my head between my knees to keep sobs from escaping.
They rip free anyway. I should be excited.
This should mark the beginning of everything I’ve ever wanted.
Instead, I feel the weight of a thousand choices collapsing onto my shoulders.
What is expected of me.
What it means for the future.
I close my eyes, and I’m ten again, alone on Christmas morning with the same hollow ache spreading through my chest. The same Christmas, Madame Rousseau gave me Little Women.
I can still feel the relief of opening that book and slipping into the March family’s world.
The same sense of belonging I felt during my first Christmas with the Wallises.
“Syd?” Mason calls with a sharp knock.
I swallow my sobs, cutting them off before they can slide under the door. I inhale sharply and hold it, not trusting whatever sound might escape.
This has to be my future. The man on the other side of this door. The man I chose ten years ago. For this baby, I can do what my parents never did: choose the child over myself.
This baby will know they are loved unconditionally.
They’ll never sit by a Christmas tree alone, pretending a family from a novel is their own.
“Syd?” Mason knocks again.
“I need a minute.” I wipe away my tears and reach for that place in me where I've always hidden my needs, shoved down every inconvenient truth. This time, my body accepts the offering, letting me breathe without a crushing weight on my chest. Slipping into sweatpants and a tank, I steady my breath.
I can do this. I’ve lived my entire childhood swallowing my desires.
For this baby, I can do it again.
When I open the door and bring my shaking hands forward to reveal the test I’m holding, Mason’s eyes widen.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“Yep,” I say with a tentative smile.
He steps closer, resting a hand on my stomach. “I’m gonna be a dad?” There’s awe in his voice and disbelief in his eyes, like he’s found certainty where I feel nothing but adrift.
Silent tears fall down my cheeks.
“Hey, hey.” Mason pulls back, his thumb brushing a tear from my cheek. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?”
“I’m overwhelmed. I… we hadn’t planned it.”
I don’t tell him the rest. A childhood of love, stability, and every wish fulfilled left him no concept of what toxic, selfish parents can do to a child. And it isn’t lost on me that the one person who might understand these fears isn’t the man standing here.
“You’re not alone, Syd. We’re in it together.”
I say nothing, only wrap my arms a little tighter around him, and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to believe his words. But James’s face outside the pharmacy flashes behind my lids, and I cry harder.
“How about we tell everyone at dinner tonight?” Mason says, brushing away a tear.
No. Not in front of him.
I sniffle and say, “Can we hold off until we confirm with the doctor?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
When he pulls me close, I let myself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the illusion of certainty he offers.