Chapter 27

I can’t do it. There’s no way. Technically I’m ready. I’ve chugged a half liter of Gatorade and am ready to go.

The procedure is simple enough. Pink cardboard box with the silhouette of a pregnant belly, white stick, and dummy-proof fold-out instructions. But there’s nothing that explains what to do after, besides the obvious “consult a doctor.” They don’t mention what you’re supposed to say to your boyfriend who had a whole life planned for himself that didn’t include this, what to tell your estranged father, with whom you’ve just started talking again, how to break the news to your sick mom, who will be so disappointed and hurt that she might get even sicker. The box instructions don’t include Ethan in any of this either. Lord, how will I tell my brother?

I can do the peeing part.

But I can’t face the truth.

I drop the stick into the sink and walk out of the bathroom. Hope is standing on the other side of the door, her body tense with anticipation, her lips pressed into a thin line.

But she’s not alone. Ethan is standing next to her. And Hope’s hand is in his.

They are holding hands.

I’m briefly distracted from my own worries. What is happening in front of me? My eyes widen, and I shoot Hope an accusing glare. Did you tell him?

She gives a barely perceptible shake of her head. “I told Ethan that I was upset,” she explains.

“I hold her hand when she’s upset,” Ethan puts in helpfully.

It probably never occurred to him to ask what’s upset her or to wonder why his girlfriend is now staring at me expectantly. But his outstretched hand, that small, warm gesture, is enough to make her happy. She’s scared for me, poised and ready to help me, but her own course is calm and clear. Hope glows as she stands there quietly waiting for the verdict. I gaze at their joined hands.

“I just need a minute—” I begin. And then my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out and touch the screen, welcoming the distraction, anything to keep me from thinking about the flat, white stick waiting for me in the bathroom.

The message is from Liam.

I see capital letters and exclamation points but the words blur in front of me, and for a moment the text is meaningless.

Call me please!!! I really need to talk to you. SOMETHING AMAZING has happened.

I stare at the phone stupidly. And then it buzzes again. It’s Mom this time. Your father is staying in town, and you didn’t tell me? I was counting on you to be honest with me.

And then again. From Dad: Can I come by later? I stopped by the hospital, but you weren’t there. Your mother is pretty upset.

“What’s going on?” Hope asks me.

I have no idea what’s going on—with anyone. My mind is bouncing between the joined hands in front of me, the expectations of my mother, the hopes of my father, and the boyfriend whose life I’m about to destroy. I can barely stop to think about myself in the middle of all of them, the ticking bomb that’s about to explode.

Suddenly the room begins to tilt and spin; I sway for a moment, then drop down to my knees. There’s a rising, burning pressure in my chest, the air’s too thick to breathe. I hear Hope call my name, but the blood is beating in my ears. My skin goes slick with sweat, small beads forming around my neck and spreading like a clammy sheet over my body.

Then Ethan’s voice breaks through, and I look up to find him crouching next to me. “Take a deep breath,” he instructs me.

I try to inhale slowly. “I can’t—I can’t—” I wheeze.

I feel his hand clasp around my arm and he brings his face close to mine. His pale eyes scan me and his fingers tighten on my wrist. “You’re having a panic attack,” he says.

“I can’t breathe—Ethan—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, or you wouldn’t be able to talk,” he replies reasonably.

“Should we call someone?” Hope suggests. She’s hovering over us anxiously and tapping on her phone. “It says on Wikipedia that you should inhale and exhale very slowly. Try to count to five.”

I don’t know what she’s talking about; I can barely remember how to breathe, much less count my breaths. “Ethan—please—”

“Lie down,” he commands.

“What?”

“Lie down. On the carpet, on your side.” There’s something reassuring about his detached voice. I collapse on the rug and close my eyes. “Now make your hands into fists and squeeze,” he instructs me. “One, two, three, and release your hands—then squeeze again—one, two, three—” I do as he says but it doesn’t help; it still feels like I’m drowning. A moment later there’s a rustling noise and the sound of shuffling footsteps.

Hope murmurs, “Ethan, what are you doing?”

I don’t care what he’s doing. It’s too much of an effort to try and stay alive. My brother will take care of me. He’ll make this awful feeling go away. Somehow, I know this.

There’s a grunt and then a soft weight comes down on me, warm and tough and heavy.

And so familiar.

My eyes fly open and I lift my head. He’s covered me in his sensory blanket, his burrito wrap. I want to argue with him, push it off me. This is his therapy—his comfort. But then his familiar smell floods my panicked mind with echoes of the words I used to say to him. You’re okay, now. I’ve got you now. You’re okay. Only this time, I’m the one inside the wrap, and Ethan is muttering the phrase over and over, carefully tucking the edges around my shoulders. It feels so strange; I’m on the wrong side of this. I’m the one who should be taking care of him.

But even as I think it, I feel my heart slow down, and I let out a shuddering sigh; I bury my head in the shaggy rug and close my eyes. Ethan’s wiry arms tighten around my shoulders, and he places his head against my neck. Strands of long, pale hair fall against my cheek and tickle my nose.

I take a deep breath and let my mind go still.

“Are you as good as new?” he asks me finally. He’s using my words. That’s my expression.

“I’m getting there, Ethan. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After a few minutes, I’m ready to sit up. But I let an extra moment pass before I do. This is the closest I’ve ever been to him. This is our strange version of a hug, but today Ethan is the one giving it. And for just a second I want to hold on to that, the only bright part of this day. I know that when he lets me go, I’ll have to go back to being me; I’ll have to look them all in the face and disappoint them. It’s safe inside this blanket, and for now, I’m happier pretending to be Ethan. I’ve fought my brother’s battles all my life, but I’ve never really seen the world from his eyes. And now I realize I don’t want to be unwrapped. I want to stay under my brother’s blanket forever.

I shift beneath his weight, and he relaxes his grip and moves back to let me rise. Hope kneels beside me and extends a hand to pull me up. “We’ll get through this, Rainey,” she murmurs into my ear. “And I’ll help you, no matter what you decide—”

“I didn’t do the test,” I reply. I can feel Ethan staring at me. “But I’ll go do it now. I’m ready.”

She gives me a reassuring squeeze and lets me go. On the way to the bathroom, I brush past my brother. But I can’t look at him. When he calls my name and asks, “What test?” I shake my head and shut the bathroom door behind me.

I grab the stick from the counter and hold it up to my face. The little window teases me. Clean, white, and perfect.

I take a deep breath and do the deed. Then I close my eyes and wait. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty.

I count to a hundred and brace myself.

There’s just one line. One line.

I squint at the miracle stick. I have an overwhelming urge to kiss the little pee-soaked test. I was ready for disaster, and this little window of truth just saved me.

I can move on now. The nausea was probably just from stress; the weird spotting was just a messed up period or something. I’m going pick up the phone and call Liam back. And I’ll be happy for him. And when I’m finished fixing our relationship, I’ll go to the hospital and help my mom get better. And after that I’ll find a way to talk to Dad and be the daughter I should have been before.

And I’m never, ever going to need Ethan’s blanket again. I’m done with that. I’m putting that chapter behind me.

With a quick motion, I reach my hand out and flush the toilet, then toss the stick into the trash. Hope is hovering outside when I open the door, and she lets out a relieved sigh when she sees my calm expression. “It’s okay?”

“Yep. Everything’s fine. No worries.”

Ethan still looks confused.

“I’ll tell you one day when I’m ready,” I say. “Right now I have to call my boyfriend.”