Page 64 of The Broken Keys

I need to know. I need to be sure.

My body goes numb even though the blood is racing in my veins. I grab my keys and my purse, still wearing my cotton pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt, and makeup smeared across my face.

Shit!

I don’t care. I need to get to a pharmacy and get a test. If I’m right, if I’m actually pregnant, everything just became infinitely messier.

I have no idea how Jax will take the news.

Holy mother...

How did I let this happen?

I grab my sunglasses. They’re oversized and dark enough to hide behind. Then I rush to my car.

The drive to the pharmacy is surreal. Every red light lasts an eternity. Every turn takes me closer to an answer I’m notsure I’m ready for. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white.

I park three blocks from the nearest drugstore, in a lot where no one will recognize my car. The walk is like a funeral march.

Inside, the fluorescent lights scream at me, and the aisles are too narrow. It’s like they’re caving in on me.

I keep my head down, my shades on, and make my way to the family planning section like I’m trudging through enemy territory.

There are so many options. Digital. Traditional. Early detection. I grab three different boxes and head to the register with my heart pounding so hard it’s about to fall out of my chest.

The cashier is a young woman who barely glances up. “That’ll be sixty-two fifty.”

I hand her my credit card, my hands shaking, praying she doesn’t recognize my name. She doesn’t.

Thank God for small miracles!

She bags the tests and slides my receipt across the counter with a bored, “Have a nice day.”

I’m back in my car before I can breathe again. The drive home is a blur.

And now, I’m standing in my bathroom, staring at three pregnancy test boxes spread across the counter like evidence of a crime I committed.

I open the first one with the weight of the world riding on the next few minutes. I read the instructions five times, even though they’re simple. Pee on the stick. Wait two minutes. Two lines mean I’m pregnant. One line means I’m not.

I open the next two cartons. This one says “pregnant” will appear if my test is positive. The last one says I’ll see a plus sign if it’s positive.

Simple.

Except nothing about this is simple.

I take each test, set them on the counter, and immediately leave the room because I can’t watch them develop. I can’t sit here and stare at them while my entire future crystallizes in real time.

While I wait, I go downstairs, pour myself a glass of water, and check my phone.

One hour. I’ll wait one hour before I look. That way, I’ll have time to process this situation so I can prepare for whatever answer is waiting for me upstairs.

My phone buzzes.

Callum:Hey. Just wanted to reach out. I know last night was rough. I’m here if you need to talk.

My stomach drops.

Oh, God… Callum.