CHAPTER TWENTY
A ( + ) sign in the round window indicates a ‘pregnant’ result.
Yup. That’s definitely a blue plus sign.
I’m terrified.
And a tiny bit excited.
But I tamp down any bit of excitement. After a miscarriage and ectopic pregnancy, the logical side of my brain is screaming that my chances of this pregnancy surviving are slim.
The rest of me? Afraid to admit I’m a tiny bit hopeful.
And scared to death.
Should I even tell Rock?
No.
No way.
I can’t get his hopes up until I know one way or another. It’s cruel.
I was so distracted by our trip I didn’t think much about it. Besides, I’m so bad at math and my body has never exactly run like clockwork—go figure—I can only estimate that I’m three or four weeks late. It didn’t dawn on me that I might be pregnant until the “stomach bug” I acquired on the trip didn’t go away.
Doctor. I better schedule an appointment.
Downstairs, the front door opens and slams shut.
Can’t I have a few spare moments to pee on a stick in peace?
Gathering up the box the test came in, the instructions and the stick, I stuff everything back into the paper CVS bag I brought it home in and shove it in the back of the bottom drawer of my vanity. Rock has no reason to go in there for anything.
“Hope?” Rock calls out.
I finish up in the bathroom. Good thing too, when I open the door, he’s already striding into the bedroom.
“Hey, baby doll.” His smile turns to concern as he looks over me more carefully. “Still not feelin’ okay?”
“Meh. I think I might be getting a cold on top of the stomach thing.” I wave off the concern. “How was church?”
Not that he usually shares much about what they discuss at the table, but the question always automatically pops out anyway.
Today, Rock doesn’t give me one of his usual vague answers.
“Fuckin’ clusterfuck. As usual.” He narrows his eyes and takes me in. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He brushes the back of his hand over my cheek and I lean into his touch. “I’m not used to you not waiting for me outside the war room,” he says in a gentler voice. The warm, gentle tone he saves for when we’re alone.
I want to tell him so bad. I’m used to sharing everything with my husband. Everything.
Not yet.
“How busy are you at the shop right now?” I ask.
He cocks his head and studies me again before answering. “Winter’s coming, so we’ll be slammed with everyone wanting their bike done for spring. What’s on your mind?”
“I was wondering if we could get away for a few days.”
“We just came back from a trip. Are you all caught up at work?”
I shrug. “I can move some things around.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Have anywhere special in mind?”
“Not really.” My lips curve up. “Have any presidential visits you need to make?”
“You really took to your first lady duties on our trip, didn’t you?”
“I guess.”
“No, you did.” He takes my hand and pulls me over to the bed. “I know we’ve both been crazy since we got back. I haven’t had a chance to properly thank you.”
“Like what?”
“Putting up with everything. You were such a big help to me. Made me so proud having you on my arm.” He runs the back of his hand over my cheek. “Smartest, prettiest woman in every room.”
I lean into his touch, loving our connection. “I don’t know about that,” I mutter. “But I like that you think so.”
“I know so.” He blows out a breath. “I do have to run downtown for a quick meeting. You can come with me if you want to.”
I hate lying to Rock, so the next day I call my doctor first thing in the morning and they squeeze me in.
“What was the date of your last period?” Doctor West asks.
My cheeks heat with the embarrassment of how careless I am.
“Uh, I’m not sure.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Longer than five weeks?”
“Definitely. But I’m always late.”
A hint of a professional smile ghosts over her lips. “It’s not uncommon. We’ll take some blood, schedule an ultrasound and estimate from there.”
A spike of fear hits. I hate needles.
If I’m pregnant, I better get used to a lot more invasive things than a simple blood draw.
To my surprise and relief, the blood draw is quick and less painful than I expect. I’m bubbling over with emotions the whole time: scared, excited, so damn hopeful.
And guilty that I didn’t tell Rock.
“We should have the results tomorrow. Let’s get you in for an ultrasound on Friday. You’re more than welcome to bring your husband.”
“Will we really be able to see anything this early?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be able to rule out another ectopic pregnancy?”
She hesitates and seems to think over the answer, which only further spikes my anxiety. “We should be able to from the ultrasound. If not, we’ll order a transvaginal ultrasound. That will show us where the pregnancy is located. Try not to worry.”
Try not to worry my ass. The entire ride home all I do is worry.
Worry about whether I should tell Rock and get his hopes up. Worry if this baby will be healthy. Finding out if I’m actually pregnant and it’s a viable pregnancy is just the first step. There are so many other variables I have to worry about.
It’s not like I’m in my twenties. As if I wasn’t already aware of that fact, the “Pregnant After Thirty-Five” pamphlet the nurse shoved in my hand before I left drove the knowledge home.
I’m ready to explode with the need to talk about this with someone. But I can’t tell anyone before I tell Rock. I just can’t.
Friday. Just a couple days away. Hopefully I’ll have an answer and then I’ll come home and tell him. Good news. Happy news.
And if it’s bad news, I’ll tell him that too, but at least I won’t get his hopes up only to crush them with the pain of losing a baby.
Again.
A baby. Our baby.
My hand settles over my stomach. “Please, please, please be okay,” I whisper.
I’m afraid to admit to myself how much I want this baby.