“No, no, no!”

I stared at the little white wand in my hand. One pink plus sign. I grabbed the package directions again. Just in case the plus sign meant you were positively not pregnant. Nope. Positively pregnant. And stupid. Definitely stupid. What was the sign for that?

I padded around the bathroom, muttering to myself. It had been a week since Chase’s mother’s disastrous visit. Chase was working. He always worked Saturdays, which made his brother even more of a jerk in my opinion. Not that I knew the guy. I had a feeling Lorraine had already worked her magic on both Dylan and their mother, which would more than explain the family’s hostility.

“Focus, Rain.” How could I be pregnant? I was on the damn pill—had been since Izzy was born. I loved my daughter, but I wasn’t about to do that again. It had to be a defective test.

I snatched Izzy up, buckled her into the car, and made it to the pharmacy just before it closed.

An hour and two more defective tests later, I was still pregnant.

I sat on the edge of the tub and tried to quell the roiling of my stomach. I’d always imagined that the next time I had to reveal I was pregnant, I’d be sitting across the table from the man I loved—my husband, preferably—over a candlelit dinner in a fancy restaurant. I’d take his hand, look lovingly into his eyes, and give him the good news. He’d gather my hands in his, get up from his chair, and pull me into his arms. He’d kiss me and tell me how happy he was. And we’d dance. In my dreams, we’d always dance, because we were that happy.

I let go a deep breath. It came out as a sob.

There would be no restaurant. No handholding. Definitely no dancing. And who knows? Once Chase found out, I might not even have the man I loved. It’s not like it hadn’t happened to me before.

I read the wand again. Maybe the whole batch was defective.

As much as I hated having to put out the money for a doctor’s visit, especially when I wasn’t sick, I didn’t have a choice.

First thing Monday morning, I’d call my gynecologist.

* * *

“How?” I wailed at Dr. Hart Monday afternoon. “I’m on the pill.”

Shaking her head, she scanned my chart. “The pill is over ninety-nine percent effective when used properly. Are you sure you didn’t miss a dose? Even one could be enough.”

“Positive.” I felt nauseated—nerves or the baby growing inside me, it didn’t matter which. I wanted to barf.

“Have you been sick?”

I shook my head. “No. Just a cold a couple months ago.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Did you take anything?”

Seems like we were getting a bit off topic. I was having a life crisis, and she wanted to talk about how to treat a cold.

“I drank lots of fluids and tried to rest, but I was going through a really difficult time. I think stress just brought on the cold in the first place. I’m usually pretty healthy.”

“Head cold, chest cold? Flu?”

Was she kidding?

“Chest cold. Cough.”

“Drugs?”

“I don’t do drugs. Never have.”

She smiled. “Not those kind. When you were sick, were you on any kind of medication? Antibiotics, maybe?”

“Yeah. Amoxicillin or something.”

“There you go.” She closed the chart and set it on the counter. “Lie back so we can see what’s going on.”

“There I go what?” I cried, not lying back.

“There you go, as in antibiotics affect the efficacy of oral contraceptives. If you were downing lots of grapefruit or OJ as well, that could’ve helped give those little swimmers even more of a fighting chance.”

“What?” They must have heard me in the next room. Maybe even the next town. “Why didn’t anyone tell me that? Don’t you think it should be on the box or something? I’m pretty sure Minute Maid doesn’t warn you that your chances of getting knocked up increase with every glass.”

Dr. Hart wasn’t doing a very good job not laughing. I, on the other hand, wasn’t amused.

“The chances of the orange juice itself being responsible for your pregnancy are pretty slim. I’d point my finger at the antibiotics, and I’m going to bet there’s a warning somewhere in that teeny-tiny print you probably didn’t bother to read. I’m just surprised the doctor who prescribed your antibiotics didn’t recommend you use another method of birth control during your course of treatment.”

Too bad Aunt Donna wasn’t a doctor, nor had she told me any such thing. And since I’d likely gotten pregnant while on that course of antibiotics, that also meant there was a chance that Chase wasn’t the father.

The room started to tilt, and saliva pooled in the back of my throat. Seconds later, my breakfast, including that sneaky glass of orange juice, found its way to the bottom of Dr. Hart’s trash can.