Not Yours to Carry (High Lonesome #3)

Rory

Isquint at the pregnancy test again, trying to decipher the lines.

Or line. That's the question. One line or two?

A single mark, or a plus sign?

Allie leans over and gives a firm nod. “That’s just a shadow.”

I'm not quite as sure as she is, but then, I've been staring at this stick for a long time, and the longer I look, the less certain I am. At this point, the only thing I’m sure of is that it looks exactly the same as it has for the last twenty-four hours. If anything, the direct sunlight streaming through Stacey’s living room window is making it harder to tell.

Great. Because I really needed this whole situation to be harder than it already is. It’s already a struggle to get the words out.

I take a breath, steeling myself. “I think it’s a line. Like, a plus sign.”

Stacey reaches for the test. “Let me see.”

I hold it out, ignoring Spam, whose ears perk up at the sight of the stick.

He’s already tried to eat it once. I’m not sure what that does to the validity of a pregnancy test.

I should look it up, actually. I can't be the only one who's had to type does dog saliva cause a false positive pregnancy test into the search bar on Google.

Stacey takes the plastic from me and studies it intently.

Maybe I should feel weird about passing around a piece of plastic on which I’ve peed, not to mention that I’ve been carrying around my pee stick for the last twenty-four hours, after I dug it out of the trash. But then, I guess that’s the test of true friendship.

Best friends: they’ll hold your pee stick.

Wait. That came out wrong.

Anyway, the point is that even though I haven’t gotten up the courage to talk to Nate about the maybe-positive-maybe-not pregnancy test, I need Allie and Stacey to weigh in.

“I can’t tell.” Stacey hands it back. “It looks more like the one line smudged. And aren’t they not good after a while? Like, aren’t you supposed to read them pretty soon after you…you know?”

I shrug. How would I know?

It’s not like I’ve been taking pregnancy tests for years. This is the first time I’ve ever considered venturing into this exciting world of little sticks that tell you whether your future is about to be completely upended.

Allie sets her hands on her hips. “You should take another one. Besides, you know Isabelle?”

Stacey and I shake our heads in unison because we’ve never heard of Isabelle.

“She’s a girl I work with in Chicago.” Allie looks at us expectantly.

Stacey and I nod in unison. We still have no idea who Isabelle is, but we now have the slightest context for who she might be.

“Anyway, Isabelle took a pregnancy test because she had this one-night stand with a guy who plays for some major league sports team in town. Baseball, I think.”

“Which team?” Stacey asks with interest.

Allie and I stare at her. Neither of us follows sports.

I didn’t even know there was more than one baseball team in Chicago. Don’t they get one per city or something? That’s how it works in Denver, at least. Or maybe Allie is way off base on which sport the guy plays.

Allie shrugs. “The one where they hit balls with sticks or something. Anyway, she had a one-night stand that was all hot and heavy, and then she skipped her period, so she was freaked out. And she took a pregnancy test, and it was positive.”

I’m not sure how this is supposed to be making me feel better. Also, it doesn’t narrow down which sport the guy plays.

I know that’s not the point here, but now I’m invested in Isabelle and her pro-sports-playing stud, whoever he is.

Allie makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. “She started getting things in her life ready for a baby. Moved into a two-bedroom apartment, saved up vacation time, the whole thing.”

Still not seeing the point to this story, although I do appreciate Allie’s flair for the dramatic.

I swear I can feel a fetus wriggling around in my stomach. Can you feel them this early? How early is it, come to think of it?

How big is this potential fetus, if it even exists? I need to start reading pregnancy websites.

“Anyway, a couple months go by. She’s feeling fine and not even having any morning sickness or gaining weight or anything. And she finally goes to the doctor, because they won’t even see you until you’re like a few months pregnant.”

My fingers tighten on the maybe-positive-maybe-not pee stick. This story is really, really not helping.

“And they did an ultrasound, and guess what?”

I can’t guess. I don’t want to guess.

Allie waits, looking between me and Stacey, who just lifts her eyebrows.

When we don’t guess, Allie lets out a loud sigh. “You guys are the worst. Anyway, there was nothing there. Not a baby. Not even a fetus.”

“A fetus is a baby,” Stacey points out.

“Depends who you ask,” Allie says defensively.

I rub my thumbs over my eyelids, not wanting to mediate a political debate. “Not really the time for that discussion. Anyway, so this girl wasn’t pregnant?”

Allie grins triumphantly, the moral of her story finally hitting home. “Exactly. So the pregnancy test can be wrong.”

Stacey looks doubtful, her eyebrows pulled together so tightly that there’s a line down the middle. “Maybe. And I know you can skip a period if you’re stressed.”

She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to. I’m stressed. I get it. My mom just died, and while the pain is starting to ebb ever so slightly, everything still feels wrong.

I chew on my lip, looking down at the stick once again. Both lines have faded, one more than the other, to the point that I wonder if I imagined a second line there to begin with.

Why did I get the test with lines? I should have gotten one of those that spells it out: PREGNANT/NOT PREGNANT.

They could even customize it, depending on how you feel about the potential outcomes.

CELEbrATE/TRY AGAIN LATER.

FUCKED/NOT FUCKED.

SURPRISE! YAY!/SUPRISE! OH, CRAP!

The possibilities are endless, really. But then, how do you know which one you need?

Would I be fucked if I were pregnant? I’m in a stable relationship. I have a job I like. We even have a house, and thanks to Nate’s parents, we don’t even have a mortgage.

On paper, we’re more ready than most couples for a baby. It wouldn’t derail our lives or force us to change jobs or to drop out of school or really anything substantial. I even have family in town who would be over the moon to help.

So a baby wouldn’t be a terrible thing when it comes to the logistics of it all. It’s just… I’m not sure I’m ready for a baby.

I feel selfish even thinking that. If there is a tiny little fetus inside me, of course I’m going to love it no matter what. A mini-me? Or mini-Nate? How could I not?

A warm flush washes over my body as I think of a baby with Nate’s dark-blond hair, his intense eyes. I do want that.

Someday.

Now, though? I’m just not sure what to think.

Plus, like Allie pointed out, a positive pregnancy test might not result in a baby.

Tears spring to my eyes, and fuck.

I sniff loudly as Stacey throws her arms around me.

“It’s okay, Ror. We’re here for you. We’ll figure this out together.”

I swipe the back of my hand over my cheek. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

“Maybe you’re pregnant,” Allie says, her lips quirking up at the very edges, the way they do when she’s making a joke, but it’s not funny.

It’s not.

“Too soon,” Stacey says.

I just glare at Allie, who holds her hands up, palms toward us. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Tough crowd.”

Stacey steps back and claps her hands together like she’s trying to wrangle her classroom full of kindergarteners and first graders. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re not going to assume anything. Either way.”

She looks between Allie and me until we both nod.

“Good. Now, Rory, throw that stick away, and we’re all going to wash our hands with soap. You peed on that thing.”

She nods toward the kitchen sink.

Allie rolls her eyes, but she joins me as I follow Stacey’s instructions. Honestly, I think that if Stacey told me to pull out my crayons right now and draw her a picture of a dragon, I’d listen. I’m just happy to let someone else be in control for a minute, to not have to think.

I do, however, wrap the stick in a napkin and tuck it back into my purse. Just in case.

I scrub my hands with her apple-scented soap, letting the lather build between my fingers before I rinse it away and dry my hands on a towel that’s printed with cartoon cows.

I interlace my clean fingers and twist them. “Now what?”

Stacey must have a plan. She always seems to know what to do.

She’s the kind of adult we all thought we would be someday: confident, competent. Knows how to plunge a toilet and pay bills, not just online, but with a check, too. Remembers to buy toilet paper so she never has to use tissues or paper towels to wipe.

She’d be a great mom. I can picture her signing kids up for hockey, remembering to buy them skates and pads, and dropping them off five minutes early.

Actually, she probably wouldn’t just drop them off. She’d be the team mom, sitting there through practice to cheer them on and then provide orange slices.

What kind of mom would I be?

I press a hand to my lower abdomen, visions swirling through my brain.

Would I even remember to drop them off at school on time? Or remember what day their practice hockey is? What if they don’t like hockey?

Hockey is a big deal here in High Lonesome. You know how in some states, the whole town turns out for high school football games? Well, here, it’s hockey, probably because the football field is reliably buried in snow by mid-October every year.

The edges of my vision darken as the thoughts race through my mind, one after the next.

“What are you thinking about?” Stacey asks, her forehead wrinkled.

I take a deep breath, doing my best to block out the what-ifs and focus on her. What am I thinking? I’m not really sure what I’m not thinking, and that’s terrifying, too. I’m sure there are huge, important parts of raising a child that I don’t even know to worry about.

I take another deep breath, resisting the urge to blurt out what I’m really thinking.