Page 17 of Before You Go
And that’s what this is.
How do I know?
Well, four days ago, after realizing that I missed my period, I took a pregnancy test, and it came back with two lines so dark there was no misreading it. Still, I took about a dozen more in a multitude of brands just to confirm the first wasn’t a fluke, and they all came back the same way.
Even with the image of those tests pasted to the back of my eyelids, mocking me every time I blink, I’m currently in the denial stage of the situation. It’s a good place to be.
Okay, that’s also a lie. It’s the worst place to be because every second of every day, there is a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me that I need to talk to Dayton, but the idea of not only seeing him again but telling him that I’m pregnant with his child is terrifying. Neither of us thought about the consequences of what we did weeks ago. Or at least I didn’t think about the fact that we didn’t use protection, nor that I’m not on anything to prevent pregnancy.
I got off birth control a year after Matthew and I got married, when we decided to start trying to conceive. That obviously never happened. Then, I didn’t think about it because I stopped having sex with him, and I just never got back on anything because so much time had passed in which I never even had a scare.
To this day, I don’t know why we couldn’t get pregnant. As far as my doctor said, everything looked normal on my end, but any time I brought up the idea of going to a specialist for Matthew to get tested, he’d get annoyed. He was positive that it would happen when it was supposed to, and he didn’t need someone else involved.
And I honestly was not planning on having sex with anyone else after we separated, so getting on birth control wasn’t on my to-do list. Furthermore, it wasn’t even a thought in my head that Dayton and I getting pregnant the first and only time we had sex—on the very night we met—was a possibility.
“Maybe your sugar is low,” Mom says, dragging me from my thoughts. “What have you eaten today?”
“I had some toast earlier.” I take a seat on the barstool next to Jacob.
“Toast?” She frowns. “It’s after five.”
“I know, but I haven’t been hungry.”
“I’m making a pasta salad for book club tonight. I’ll make you a bowl.”
“No, thank you.” I shake my head and place my hand over my stomach, which twists at the idea of eating anything, especially what she is making that smells heavily loaded with garlic and feta cheese. Of course, she ignores me and scoops some into a bowl, which she gets down from the cabinet.
“You need to eat.” She scoots the bowl across the counter toward me, and bile crawls up the back of my throat when the smell hits me full force. Covering my mouth, I slide off the stool and run out of the kitchen to the bathroom in the hall. Falling to my knees in front of the toilet, I lose what little food I’ve eaten today.
“Do I need to call Dr. Spartan?” Mom suddenly asks from behind me, rubbing my back, and I shake my head. I should probably look up how long this stage of pregnancy lasts and what I can do to help ease some of my nausea, which has been happening all day for the past two days. But again, I’m in my denial stage, so I haven’t done any research or made an appointment to see my doctor. I will, but I haven’t worked up the courage to do it yet.
“Honey, you’re obviously sick.” She flushes the toilet.
“Or she’s pregnant,” Jacob says, followed by the crinkle of a bag and the crunch of the chips he’s eating.
My body stills while the air in my lungs freezes.
“She’s not pregnant,” Mom snaps at my brother, then her hand stills on my back, and she pauses while the air around us seems to grow thick. “Right, honey?” she asks softly, and tears fill my eyes.
Lifting my head, I meet her gaze. I want to lie and tell her that I’m not, but I can’t. It’s already going to be difficult for her and my father to accept the fact that I’m pregnant by a man who I’m not in a relationship with, and lying about it right now will just make it worse.
“This is…” Mom shakes her head, then smiles softly. “Great. This is great! Matthew is going to be thrilled.”
“It’s not Matthew’s.”
“Oh, fuck,” Jacob mutters over what sounds like an entire mouthful of chips.
“What?” Mom whispers, her brows drawn together so tightly it would shock her Botox injector, who fills her face with enough chemicals every few months that she hasn’t moved her forehead in years.
“The baby isn’t Matthew’s.”
“Of course it is,” she argues.
“I’m pretty sure she knows who got her pregnant,” Jacob mutters, and she spins her head around in his direction. I can’t see her face, but I have no doubt that she’s glaring at him. “Just sayin’.” He holds up his hands.
“Jacob is right. I know who the father is, and it’s not Matthew.”
“Whose is it?” she asks, turning back to me, and I shake my head.
