Chapter 8
RUBY
A few weeks have slipped by, and I’m still going through the motions. My mood, once hurt and embarrassed, has shifted to somber. A lingering weight remains in my chest, not worse, just different. Sometimes it feels as if my heart is keeping secrets from me.
It’s Friday night. Normally, I’d be wrapping up my last tutoring session of the week, counting down the minutes until I can peel off my shoes and enjoy the silence of my house.
But tonight, I didn’t even make it through the full session.
Halfway through our session, a wave of nausea hit me so hard my palms broke out in sweat, and my mouth filled with the metallic tang of bile.
My grip on the desk tightened until my knuckles ached.
Maybe it’s just being rundown—too many late nights, too many hours, and not enough real meals.
I apologized to the student and promised to make it up to him next week.
On the drive home, I left the windows down even though the air was warm.
My air conditioner? Still broken. I hoped the fresh breeze would help, but it didn’t.
Now I’m standing in my kitchen. The overhead light glares, and the room spins so badly I’m forced to steady myself with a trembling hand on the counter and close my eyes.
A pot of chicken noodle soup simmers on the stove.
It’s nothing fancy, but you can never go wrong with chicken noodle.
When I was little, my mom used noodle soup as a cure-all.
As I stir the soup, my stomach churns. “You’re fine,” I mutter.
“Just tired.” The words barely leave my mouth before my throat tightens.
My mouth fills with saliva, a warning of what’s to come when the nausea spikes hard and fast. My body finally decides it’s done pretending.
I drop the spoon onto the stove and bolt down the hall, one hand pressed over my mouth.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I start to gag.
I fall to my knees at the toilet just as my stomach heaves.
I retch violently, the sound echoing in the small space.
My body convulses as everything I’ve eaten comes back up.
I’m left shaking, gasping for breath as tears stream down my face.
When the nausea finally subsides, I slump back against the wall, forehead resting on the edge of the tub.
My mouth tastes terrible.
My hands tremble.
“What the hell,” I whisper.
Once I compose myself, I flush and push up on unsteady legs. I catch a glimpse of my pale reflection in the mirror, splash cool water on my face, and rinse my mouth out with mouthwash. Closing my eyes, I press my palm flat against my stomach. Seconds later, I feel another wave of nausea hit.
It fills my chest with unease.
Just a stomach bug, I tell myself. It has to be.
Yet, as I switch off the bathroom light and make my way back out to the kitchen, I can’t shake the feeling that my body is trying to communicate something I’m not ready to hear.
I start pacing back and forth, my bare feet slapping softly on the floor, and my mind races.
My breathing turns ragged as if I’m about to hyperventilate.
This isn’t a stomach bug. The thought hits like a freight train—sudden and heavy, stealing my air. I freeze, gripping the counter with one hand, pressing the other to my stomach. I will myself not to panic, but there’s no use. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat.
“No.”
“No, no, no,” I chant over and over. My brain scrambles for logic.
“You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks.
Of course, your body’s rebelling. That’s all this is.
Except…” I pause mid-rant. I’ve had stomach bugs before, plenty of them.
They never come with this cold dread curling in my gut.
My eyes dart to my phone on the table where I dropped it earlier.
I grab it with shaking fingers and unlock the screen.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “Let’s check to be sure.
” I pull up my calendar. The screen blurs as my eyes skim the weeks, and the days bleed together.
Tutoring sessions, lesson planning notes, and dinner with my parents.
Everything except the one thing I’m looking for.
I scroll back and back. My stomach twists tighter with every swipe.
When was the last time I had my period? The answer doesn’t come immediately.
That alone sends a fresh surge of panic.
I know my body. I’ve always known my body.
I live by routines and predictability, and not being able to place it feels wrong.
I close my eyes and try to think. Images spiral through my mind of grading papers late at night and exhaustion as I fall into bed.
The weeks blur. My determination has kept me busy.
I remember cramps at school, and a pain reliever popped during lunch.
How long ago was that? “Dammit, Ruby. Think.” My heartbeat stumbles.
Realization creeps in, slowly and terrifyingly.
“It couldn’t have been that long,” I murmur, my voice lacking conviction.
I scroll back further.
There it is.
The date stares, accusing.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. My hand flies to my mouth.
My heart kicks into overdrive, and panic roars in my ears.
Weeks ago—too many weeks. Long enough that this might make sense.
I shake my head as if to knock the thought loose.
“This can’t be.” I lean forward, gripping the table until my knuckles turn white.
Suddenly, I feel a headache coming on as my mind betrays me, dragging me back to Catcher, back to that morning, the humiliation and hurt I’ve tried to bury under work and exhaustion.
A new wave of nausea rolls through, sharper now, fueled by fear.
“Oh God,” I whisper again, tears burning behind my eyes.
“Please, no.” I begin to pace again, faster this time, running a hand through my hair, yanking the clip free and tossing it across the room with a frustrated grunt while my thoughts spiral.
What if I am pregnant? What would I do? How would I tell Catcher?
Would he deny that the baby is his? Could I handle being a single mom?
What would my parents think? What would our friends think?
I stop in the kitchen, arms wrapped around myself, suddenly cold while my body shakes. I can’t do this. I can’t be pregnant by a man who doesn’t remember being with me. If I sit with it, if I let it take root, it becomes real, and I’m not ready for that.
“This is ridiculous,” I say. “You’re jumping to conclusions. You’re stressed. You threw up once. No biggie. It’s probably a stomach bug. You’re a teacher, and kids are germ magnets. That’s a logical explanation.” I keep talking to myself. “Plenty of people throw up and aren’t pregnant. Right?”
Then it hits me. I’ll take a pregnancy test. The test will confirm I’m not pregnant, and I’m panicking for no reason. I grab my purse and keys before I can talk myself out of it. The decision feels frantic, but it’s better than standing here going crazy.
“I’ll just check,” I mutter, already slipping on my shoes. “Then I’ll know for sure.”
The drive to the store is a blur. This is one of those times that, while driving, you’re zoned out but somehow follow the rules of the road.
Before I know it, I arrive at my destination.
As I pull left into the parking lot, my stomach rolls again.
My hands are clammy on the steering wheel.
I find a spot and park crooked, but don’t have it in me to care.
Inside, bright fluorescent lights make me squint as my eyes adjust. I veer right, heading to the back corner, straight for the pharmacy section.
I peer up and down each aisle, hoping I don’t see anyone I know.
When I reach the shelf, I scan the options—digital, early detection, two-packs, three-pack, and my pulse kicks hard.
“This is so stupid,” I whisper, grabbing the first box my hand lands on. After a moment, I grab another box.
Tests in hand, I head to the nearest self-checkout, pay quickly, and leave. On the way back through the nearly empty parking lot, I practically run to my car with the bag clutched to my chest.
The drive home feels endless. Inside, I’m engulfed by a heavy, watchful silence.
After locking the door, I sag against it, my chest tight, heart hammering, and eyes squeezed shut.
“Pull yourself together,” I whisper in one slow, shaky breath.
I force myself forward, my steps dragging, my legs feeling as though they are made of lead.
Dread prickles under my skin as I face the test.
Seconds crawl by while I cling to scraps of courage.
Gritting my teeth, I snatch the bag and stumble to the bathroom.
My hands are clammy, trembling as I tear open the box.
The instructions smear before my eyes, but the test is brutally simple.
Pee on the stick and endure the wait. I scoff at the cruel absurdity, hike up my skirt, and sit.
Finished, I slam the test by the sink, scrub my hands, and tap the timer on my phone. The wait is agony.
After closing the toilet lid, I sit and wait. I tell myself over and over that everything is going to be fine. As soon as the test confirms I’m not pregnant, I’ll go back to pretending the past six weeks have been one big messy nightmare, and I can move on.
Seconds later, the timer on my phone goes off, and I stop breathing.
As if I’m moving in slow motion, I stand, dread crawling up my spine.
I pick up the test, and for a split second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing.
Then reality hits like a tidal wave. The word ‘Pregnant’ stares back at me like a huge, shiny beacon of dread.