Meredith

Ugh. It’s the third time this week I’ve had my head buried in the toilet first thing in the morning. What? The? Hell?

There’s the obvious reason a woman might be sick in the morning, but I’m one hundred percent positive that can’t be the cause. For one thing, my period is due to start...mmm...any time now. I mean, it’s not like it’s ever followed a schedule I could set my watch to, but it’s definitely time. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. Like, really, any time now.

And anyway, Gabe is the only man I’ve been with in…well, longer than I care to think about, and we always use protection. Aside from our first time—the night of Chet’s wedding. But come on? Pregnant on the first try? What are the odds?

After several minutes of dry heaving, I push away from the bowl. Don’t start stressing. That’s a guaranteed trip to crazy town for what is sure to be nothing. It’s a stomach bug or something.

I brush my teeth and crawl back into the safety of bed. I pull the covers up around my neck and hope, maybe, if I just fall back asleep I’ll feel better when I wake. Wrong. Instead, my mind spins through the timeline of these last weeks, trying to fit the pieces together. The wedding was…almost four weeks ago. My last period was…like a couple weeks before that? Holy shit.

Holy.

Shit.

It can’t be. I mean, really. It can’t be that. I feel sick to my stomach again, but for a very different reason.

Can it?

Oh my God, that would be the absolute icing on the disaster cake that is my life. I clench the covers as my body curls into a tight little ball. The all-consuming fear of what-ifs has the hair on the back of my neck standing straight. Sure, I want children. Someday. And I recognize the timeline for that is shrinking by the day. But now? This is hardly the time. A baby deserves security and responsibility. Things like money and a home. Both of which, I am currently in need of myself.

Unable to find a comfortable position, I flip onto my side. And then there’s Gabe. We’re just getting off the ground again, could our relationship survive a bomb like that? He is charming and handsome and fun to be around. But, a dad? Assuming his head doesn’t explode when I give him the news, how would that work? I feel like I would have to explicitly spell out obvious things, like, I don’t care if you did double check the ties between the car seat and the saddle, you can’t put a baby on horseback. Or, No, peanut butter doesn’t require teeth, but I’m positive a three-month-old isn’t ready for that kind of food.

Thinking of him that way is adorable.

But this isn’t the time for adorable.

This is serious.

I’m sweating like I’m in a sauna and I can’t decide if it’s from the nausea or the anxiety. I kick the covers away and flop onto my back. Seriously, how can my body be burning up while my hands are ice cold? It’s got to be a bug. My thoughts drift back to the conversation with Christy and her question about my career and living situation. I never planned to stay here, coming home was supposed to be temporary. Gabe’s life is tied to his ranch. Which means he’s tied to this area. How would a baby fit into that puzzle?

The edges of the room get fuzzy as my life tailspins out of control. My eyes clamp shut and I try to think happier thoughts.

Bunnies.

Nope.

That makes me think of Easter, then Easter eggs, then little Easter baskets.

Christmas.

Nope.

That makes me think of Christmas trees, then Christmas presents under the tree, then excited little faces tearing at wrapping paper.

Something safer.

Cows. Cows are safe, right?

Wrong again.

Cows make me think of milk, which makes me think of calves, which brings me back to babies, which is the one thing I’m trying not to think about.

Damnit.

Okay, so I’ll pick up a pregnancy test and find out. No big deal. There’s nothing to worry about unless there’s something to worry about. But I can’t buy a test around here. At best, everyone is like, three degrees away from knowing everyone else. And this? This is exactly the kind of information that makes for good gossip. Heaven help me. Alright, I’ll drive to Sterling and pick a random pharmacy. I can wear big, dark, gaudy, sunglasses and a floopy hat. I’ll park down the street, so no one sees my car. Am I overthinking this?

I drag myself out of bed, pull on a pair of comfy sweats, twist my hair up in a bun, and slip my feet into a pair of flip flops. Not my sexiest look, but feeling as miserable as I do, and with a task like this, sexy hardly seems pertinent.

Besides, at least I’m not sporting the fuzzy slippers.

* * *

I can’t recall a thing about the drive to the pharmacy. Between the rush of adrenaline that got me up and moving, mixed with nausea and nerves, the drive is a complete blur. Against my better judgement, I break from my plan and park in the pharmacy lot, but still choose to hide behind a pair of sunglasses I had tucked away in the glove box. I glimpse myself on the security monitor as I enter the store and I know, with absolute certainty, they know why I’m here, and they’re sitting in their little office at the back of the store, placing bets on whether or not I’m about to beeline to the family planning aisle.

Who are they? You know, the people. The ones who watch women like me come into the store every day, frantically rushing for the pregnancy tests.

Not today boys! Not this cookie.

First, I stop and peruse the in-store flyer. Distraction number one. Next, I pick up a shopping basket and head for the makeup section where I look at a couple of items and pretend to carefully read the labels. Distraction number two. My mind races as I line up my next move. I walk to the far side of the store and grab an Arizona Iced Tea. How’s that for random? Just a normal person, doing a little last-minute impulse shopping.

Nothing to see here.

I spot an out of order sign on the restroom as I meander past the pathetic toy selection.

Shit. So much for not waiting to know my destiny.

Finally, I make my way to the pregnancy tests, but I continue to play it cool.

Hmm. I’ve always been curious about these. Why don’t I pick one up and read the back? Totally random.

The selection overwhelms me. Do I want pluses and minuses? Is the word ‘pregnant’ somehow more clear? Do the digital ones work better than the others? It’s all too much, so I put one of each in my basket and proceed to make the walk of shame to the checkout counter. The pimple faced teenager behind the counter takes one look at my three pregnancy tests and an iced tea and gives me a knowing look.

Damnit.

My parents' radar has been on high alert since I informed them Gabe and I are dating, but blowing past Mom and Dad on my way out this morning, and racing to my bedroom with a shopping bag crammed under my shirt on my way in, surely didn’t help the situation. Mom starts with a light knock at my door, asking if everything is alright. Apparently my masterful, Yeah Mom I’m just really tired answer doesn’t satisfy her curiosity because she’s back again five minutes later, asking if I’d care for a sandwich. My mother is a sweet woman and, ordinarily, her offer to make me something to eat would seem normal enough, but not now. I know she knows. That’s what this is about.

Isn’t it?

“No thanks, Mom. I grabbed something while I was out.” I hate to lie to her, but food is the last thing on my mind. Just the thought of trying to keep it down makes me nauseous.

Thank God, being the only girl in my family earned me a bedroom with a private bathroom, I think to myself as I sit, placing sticks between my legs while I pee. That, and how much I hope and pray this doesn’t end up being one of those moments that haunts me the rest of my days. When I’m finished I flush the toilet and wonder if life as I knew it is swirling down the drain.

I cross my legs to sit on the bathroom floor, appreciating the cool tile as I stare up at the three tests balanced on the edge of the sink. According to the boxes, it’s a five-minute wait. But what is that saying about how a watched test never develops? Approximately half an eternity later I’m still on the floor, trying to decide how concerned I should be that all three came back indicating I’m pregnant. If it had been only one, maybe I could lull myself into disbelief. But three? Stupid men and their stupid penises.

Much to my surprise, despite all of my logical and practical concerns to the contrary, I find myself smiling at the thought of becoming a mother. It's not at all how we planned it, but here I am, the future Gabe and I saw when we were kids coming into focus. I will finally have the child I've always wanted, with the man I've always loved.

But the faint line between fantasy and reality dissolves and everything comes crashing down.

How am I going to tell my parents? What if I don’t? People have totally gotten away with that, you know? I’ll keep buying bigger and bigger clothes and never mention it. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I’m eating my way out of depression. And then get all sensitive about the subject until they drop it. This could work. At least, until I go into labor. But then, they’re grandparents, again. They adore my oldest brother Mark’s kids. They'll be so overcome with joy, they'll forget to be mad about nine months of deceit. Probably.

Holy hell, how am I going to tell Gabe? Where am I going to tell him? How does a person go about informing another person that life as they know it is over? I doubt the thought of little ones has ever so much as crossed his mind. At least not in an, I can’t wait for crumb-grabbers of my own, kind of way.

Thoughts of Gabe help me find the strength to pull myself off the floor and back to the bed, where I plop into the pillows and curl into a ball. I grab my phone from the bedside table and discover half a dozen unread messages waiting for me.

Gabe: How are you this fine morning?

Gabe: Everything okay?

Gabe: Getting a little worried Doll. Let me know if you need anything.

Gabe: Uh, never heard back. Mer?

Gabe: I’m thinking I might drop by to say hi. At least then I’ll have the chance to confirm you’re alive.

Gabe: Seriously, is this thing on? Hello?

How do I respond? What can I say via text? I suppose I could call. Call? Really? Just pick up the phone and call Gabe. Bring his whole world crashing down with two little words. I’m pregnant. Ha, this is not the time for jokes and the man has earned more than that.

Me: Sorry, I just saw the messages. It’s been a confusing day. Can I see you tonight? There’s something I need to talk to you about.