Rory #2
Even I know that what if my kid doesn’t like hockey? is getting a little ahead of myself.
Instead of answering honestly and making them both question my sanity, I just shake my head. “Nothing, really. Just trying to figure out what to do about all of this.”
And how to tell Nate.
That should have been my first concern instead of whether my potential child will play hockey, but somehow, this part is just now occurring to me.
Do I tell him now? What will he say?
Of all the questions that have been swirling around my head, the sheer number of possibilities making me nauseated, this one is easy, and maybe that’s why my brain skipped right over the obvious one. I know what Nate would say.
He’d be happy. Overjoyed, even.
The man was made to be a dad. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he’ll be a natural at raising a child.
The kind of father who teaches his kid how to throw a baseball and doesn’t raise his voice when the ball breaks a window.
The kind who gets up at night to comfort a crying baby, who has endless patience for rambling toddler stories.
A sliver of hope rises in my chest. Because if Nate is by my side, this is going to work out okay, no matter what happens.
“The first step is to figure out if you’re really pregnant,” Stacey says, pulling me back to the present.
Right. It seems so obvious when she points that out that it’s almost embarrassing, and it makes me back up a step. Or, like, ten steps.
What if I’m not pregnant?
Nate would be so happy about us having a baby. If this whole thing turns out to be a false positive, it might crush him.
In an ideal world, I’d like us to be married first. To do the whole planning thing, to be sitting together in the bathroom while we wait for the lines to appear on the test. And if this test is wrong, maybe I don’t need to take that away from him.
I should make sure, one way or another, before I bring it up. He’s had enough turmoil in his life—a lot thanks to me—and he deserves to get that ideal scenario. Maybe I can do that for him.
“Should we call the clinic?” Allie asks, phone in hand.
Right. This is where I need to focus. Figuring out what exactly is or is not going on in my uterus.
There’s one small clinic in town, attached to the hospital. Doc Burns has been running it ever since I was a kid. He sees everything from healthy babies to schoolkids with broken arms to older folks battling arthritis and heart disease.
And, of course, pregnant women. Or those who wonder if they might be.
I shudder at the idea of asking Doc Burn to check if I’m pregnant. He used to hand me lollipops after my check-ups. In this case, it’s worth the drive to one of the larger towns.
Stacey shakes her head at Allie’s suggestion. “Not yet. Just go get another pregnancy test. You can take it here, and we’ll see it right after you…you know.”
“Pee on it?” Allie fills in.
Stacey rolls her eyes. “Thank you. Remind me why we hang out with you again?”
“Because I’m delightful,” Allie says, fluttering her eyelashes. “But yes. Get another pregnancy test to make sure. I’m with Stacey on this.”
Of course she is, and that’s the benefit and curse of having a group of three best friends. Two of them can gang up on the third.
I’m on board with their idea, though, and it makes so much sense that I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. Usually, our thoughts are so alike it’s almost scary.
If I blurted out the entirety of my thoughts, I can guess exactly what they’d say:
Allie: Oh my God, you’re right. What if your kid doesn’t play hockey?
That would be a bummer. Maybe they’ll like baseball?
Or be good at music or something. But you don’t want them to be a nerd like we were.
Have to shield them from bullies. And stray pucks.
Oh God. Are you going to have to wash tiny little jock straps?
Stacey: Maybe let’s not focus on the potential fetus’s genitals, Allie.
Allie: I mean, you’re right, but still. Like, have you thought about whether you’d circumcise a baby boy?
Stacey, with an eye roll: Let’s focus on what we can control right now.
I hadn’t even considered the question of circumcision before imaginary Allie brought it up, but she has a point. What would I do?
“What would I do with a penis?” I blurt out.
The two of them stare at me, then share a look.
“Pretty sure you know what to do with a penis, Ror. That’s how you got into this situation,” Allie points out.
“I meant a baby penis.”
“Nate has a baby penis?” Allie’s eyes light up, like this is some hot piece of gossip.
“Jesus. No. He has a very nice penis, thank you very much. Not at all baby-sized.”
Allie sighs dreamily. “I need some dick in my life. It’s been too long.”
Not to discount my best friend’s dry spell, but we have bigger things to focus on. Or smaller things, I suppose, if we’re being literal.
“If the baby is really a baby and it has a penis, what do I do with it? Is circumcision still a thing?” I’m practically hyperventilating.
Any ground Stacey gained in getting me back to a rational state has evaporated as I consider the implications of a penis-owning infant.
“I can look it up,” Allie offers, like a Google search for Baby penis circumcision might solve all of these questions.
In retrospect, involving Allie in this might have been a mistake. I tell her everything, but she’s not great at pulling me back from spiraling because she does the same thing.
Stacey looks like she’s counting to ten in her head. It’s something she’s told me she does when she’s trying not to lose her shit with her kindergarteners and first graders.
Or with her best friends, I suppose.
She pinches the bridge of her nose as she blows out a breath. “Okay. Focus here, please.”
Allie and I close our mouths and look at her.
“Good. Now, here’s the plan. We will get another pregnancy test. Several, perhaps, just in case this comes up again.”
Allie raises her hand. “I’m not having s—”
Stacey shoots Allie a look before she can finish her sentence about whatever amount of sex she’s having lately.
Allie mimes zipping her lips, then locking them.
“As I was saying,” Stacey continues, conspicuously avoiding any mention of genitals, “we will get more pregnancy tests and, pending the outcome of those, we will get Rory a doctor’s appointment to confirm pregnancy. Or lack thereof.”
Yeah. And with any luck, I’ll find a girl doctor.
Allie nods. “Yes. Perfect. We should get a bunch of tests. Make sure the one you take is super accurate.”
My head is still spinning with possibilities, but I’m not so out of it that I’m forgetting the most basic things. Specifically, the High Lonesome rumor mill.
“Um. Guys. How am I supposed to get more pregnancy tests? Just go to the store? You know how gossip spreads around here.”
I envision Marge, the owner of Lone Brews, dishing out gossip about my personal business with every latte she pours.
Stacey purses her lips in thought. “Good point. Why don’t I go to the store in Vail? It’s big enough that no one will second-guess anything.”
“I can look online to see if they sell in bulk, too,” Allie offers.
She pulls out her phone and starts to tap away.
"How long will they take to get here?” Stacey asks.
Allie squints at her phone. “These ones could take a few days… Ooh, but this one we could deliver day after tomorrow!”
Stacey nods. “Perfect. I'll run to the store and get a few now. And then you'll have more to take in a few days.”
“How many pregnancy tests do I really need?” I ask, bewildered.
I thought one was enough. But then, I suppose for potentially life-altering news, it's always good to double check. And triple and quadruple check. And…whatever the word is for more times than that.
Maybe the first one was wrong. I bought the cheapest option at the store, after all, and I'm starting to think that this is probably not a time to skimp.
I look between my two best friends, who seem to be scheming to amass the world's largest collection of pregnancy tests.
“Shouldn’t one or two more be enough?” I ask.
“You want to be sure, don't you?” Allie points out, her gaze still fixed on her phone screen.
She has a point, I guess.
“True,” I concede, “but let's not go overboard.”
She finally looks up to meet my eye. “When have I ever gone overboard?”
Stacey makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter but covers it up quickly by covering her mouth and coughing.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll take another test.”