Page 48 of Blueline Baby

I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING

I bought a box of pregnancy tests three days ago. It’s been sitting at the bottom of my canvas tote bag ever since. Every single time I reach in to pull out a notebook or a textbook, I brush against the cardboard, and I think about it.

I should have taken one the day I bought them. But what I actually did was wait for Jack to get on the team charter plane for his away game. Because for some completely irrational reason, I wanted to be alone when I did this.

It sounds strange when I try to justify it. Except ever since January when we met, and March when I finally agreed to go out with him, he’s consumed almost every single corner of my life. This is something I just wanted to have for a moment that was entirely my own.

Our official six-month anniversary was on Monday. He wanted to take me out to a nice dinner. I told him no. I blamed it on being too overwhelmed with schoolwork, even though at the core of it, that was a complete lie. The next morning when he left for practice I drove to the pharmacy and bought the tests.

Because what happened on Monday morning in my reproductive biology lab was this: We were studying canine gestation, which is only sixty-three days long. The professor was explaining how to use a little cardboard wheel to estimate the exact due date.

And then, without my permission, my brain automatically ran the math for a human being.

July thirtieth.

I have that specific date classified in my memory as the night I looked Jack in the eyes and told him, just this once. Then, when we got back to Dallas I went to my doctor and got a prescription for birth control.

Because I have plans. I have multi-year, highly structured life plans that absolutely will not include a just this once mistake.

The tiny folded pamphlet that came with the foil pack of pills had a list of very specific, expected side effects for the first few months. Side effects like irregular cycles and mild fatigue. So when I suddenly missed my period and couldn’t keep my eyes open in class it was completely expected and totally normal. Now I’m worried.

I genuinely thought I was going to do this alone. I thought I would have a few quiet days to process the answer, which, according to my internal math, I’m absolutely certain is going to be positive.

Except now, faced with the actual physical reality of being alone in my bathroom, I suddenly, desperately want someone here with me. And I only have a very short list of people I can call.

My mother, despite being a multi-hour plane ride away, would immediately book a flight down here if I asked her to. Britt hasn’t set foot back in this apartment since March, and even if we were on speaking terms, I don’t know if I’d want her to be part of this anyway. Jack is currently two time zones away playing an away game.

So the list gets narrowed down to exactly one person. Someone I’ve only known for a few months. Who happens to be married to my boyfriend’s captain.

“Hi,” I say when she picks up. “Sorry. Hi. I wanted to check if there were any more families that needed a meal drop-off this week, because if the Michaelsons needed something else I could maybe⁠—”

“Chloe,” Lorelei says. Her voice is incredibly gentle. “Is everything okay?”

I feel a sharp, humiliating sob building in the back of my throat. I sniffle loudly to hold it back.

“I’m coming over,” she says.

“You don’t have to. I’m completely okay.”

“I know I don’t have to.” I hear a heavy set of keys jingle, followed immediately by a car door slamming. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t do anything before I get there.”

I don’t even try to ask her how she knows exactly what there is to do.

Lorelei arrives holding absolutely nothing. No food, no flowers, no purse. I think I subconsciously expected her to arrive carrying something comforting. The fact that she didn’t is the very first thing all week that makes me feel like an actual, capable adult about what’s currently happening.

She looks at me standing in the doorway. “Do you have one, or do we need to go buy one?”

“I have one.”

“Have you taken it yet?”

“No,” I say. I don’t move an inch.

“Chloe.”

“Okay.”

I read the paper insert again in the bathroom, sitting stiffly on the edge of the tub with the door shut. Which is completely stupid, because I’ve read it twice already this week. There’s a printed diagram. There’s a little clock icon that says I have to wait exactly three minutes. And there’s a tiny window where, presumably, two lines will appear. A control line on the right, and a line on the left if it’s positive.