Ten

This couldn't be happening.

This really couldn't be happening.

Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror and repeated the words, over and over. The woman looking back at her didn't believe the words, no matter how many times she said them.

She leaned over the sink, splashed cold water on her face, then looked back up. The reflection was the same: it was her, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, her coloring maybe just a little too pale in the bright light of the bathroom.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and made a quick wish, then opened them. Another deep breath and she looked down, hoping that the image would change.

It didn't.

She stared at the small stick, at the two pink lines filling the small window.

This couldn't be happening.

She glanced at the second stick, the one she had purchased just in case. As a back-up. As a fallback. As reassurance.

A small laugh escaped her, breathy and borderline hysterical.

There were no pink lines on the second one. Instead of those damned lines, she saw a small plus sign.

Plus. As in positive.

This couldn't be happening.

She scooped both sticks up with a shaking hand and shoved them back into the drugstore bag. She wanted to throw them out. To burn them. To pretend she had never seen them, had never purchased them.

But it was too late for that.

About three weeks too late.

She tossed the bag into the trashcan then lowered herself to the edge of the tub, her hands gripping the cold porcelain. Her mind spun, a thousand different thoughts and worries and fears colliding against each other, each one there for the space of a heartbeat before it darted away, replaced by another thought.

And another and another until her head spun and her vision swam.

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her middle and sucked in deep breaths, waiting for the nausea to pass. A sheen of cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her stomach twisted, clenching as the nausea got worse. She swallowed, took another deep breath and held it as she perched on the edge of the tub, ready to dive for the toilet just in case.

But the nausea slowly eased, leaving her tired and drained.

Why couldn't it have been the flu? For two weeks, she had been hoping it was the flu. The tiredness, the nausea, the constant feeling like she was drained. It should have been the flu.

She pressed her against her flat stomach and looked down, still not quite believing.

No, it wasn't the flu.

She was pregnant.

And oh God, how had it happened? She shook her head, her snort of laughter mocking her. She knew exactly how it had happened. And when: the night JP's condom broke. In her living room. On her sofa.

She hadn't worried about it, had honestly thought the timing was wrong. And JP had been so concerned, so tender. And she had assured him there was nothing to worry about. Had practically guaranteed it.

Oh God, she needed to tell JP.

But how? What could she say? It wasn't like she couldn't tell him, he'd figure it out eventually.

Unless…

Would he think she was trying to trick him? Or trap him? What if he didn't want her to have it? She couldn't do that, couldn't just…no, she couldn't even think about that.

But what if he wanted no parts of it? No parts of her? They hadn't been going out that long, hadn't talked of commitments or obligations or anything like that. She thought she knew him, better than she knew a lot of her friends. And she thought she knew how she felt, thought he possibly felt the same way. But what if she was wrong?

A calmness she hadn't expected settled over her, followed by steely determination. Well, if he didn't want her or their baby—and oh God, she was going to have a baby!—then she'd raise it herself. Women did that all the time, right? She was strong, independent. She had a somewhat good job doing market analysis that gave her a somewhat decent paycheck. She'd make it work.

She had to.

But she had to tell JP first.

And how would she even do that? She certainly couldn't just pick up the phone and call him. No, this was something she had to do in person. Except he was leaving this evening for an extended road trip. Should she wait until he got back?

Yes, she should wait.

No, she needed to tell him now.

She glanced her watch, chewed on her lower lip as she argued with herself. Tell him today or wait? Wait, or tell him now? Back and forth until she made herself dizzy.

Enough. She was being foolish. She had to tell him, she couldn't wait.

Which meant it had to be done now.

She stood up, splashed some more cold water on her face and ran a brush through her hair. Then she hurried from the bathroom, grabbing her keys and coat on the way out the door, that sense of unreality following her the entire time.