Page 60

"Yes," I insist, but uncertainty creeps into my voice.

"Charlie," she says, softer now, "if there's something you want to talk about?—"

"There isn't." My tone is sharper than I intended. "Drop it, Jane."

I move toward the bar, needing distance, needing another drink, needing to quiet the voice in my head that keeps saying: what if, what if, what if?

Through the glass walls, I can see the ocean, dark now except for the silver path of moonlight stretching toward the horizon. I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something similar—a vast unknown that could swallow me whole if I take one wrong step.

Chapter 19

Tess

Islip away from the reception, my heart beating in my chest. The bathroom door swings shut behind me, cutting off the music and laughter like someone's pressed mute. My reflection stares back at me from the wall of mirrors—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, a woman who just announced to half the wedding that she might be pregnant.

The bathroom is empty, thank God. I rush to the farthest stall, lock the door with trembling fingers, and lean against it, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I whisper, pressing my palms against my temples.

The bathroom stall walls feel like they’re pressing in while the floor threatens to drop away beneath me. I sink down onto the closed toilet lid. My purse slides off my shoulder and I catch it reflexively, fumbling inside for my phone.

The screen lights up and I open my period tracking app, the one I've been using faithfully for years, the one that's always been my reassurance that everything is normal, everything is fine. The calendar appears, dates marching across in neat little squares.

And there it is. A red circle that marks my last period—five weeks ago. Five weeks, not four. I count again, tapping each square with a shaking finger. My period is five days late.

"No," I breathe, but the evidence glows accusingly before me. "No, no, no."

My mind rewinds through the last week, searching for clues I may have missed. The fatigue I attributed to long rehearsals. The tenderness in my breasts I blamed on my bra. And now the horseradish cravings, just like my mother's pregnancy with me.

Then I remember—two nights when I fell asleep before taking my pill. I’m usually so careful but I’ve been so caught up in this thing with Charlie, spending a lot of time at his place and being out of my routine. I didn’t realize until the following evening that I’d forgotten to take the pill from the night before. Dammit…

I close my eyes and see Charlie's face as I blurted out those words at the table. The shock, the fear, the disbelief.

One percent. That's what they say about the chance of getting pregnant while you’re on birth control pills. One percent can still fail. But that’s when you take it as instructed, perfectly. And I wasn't perfect.

I wasn't perfect at all.

A tremor runs through my body, starting in my shoulders and working its way down to my knees. The pressure in my chest builds until I can't tell if I want to scream or cry or laugh hysterically. I press my knuckles against my mouth to hold it all in.

What would a baby mean right now? My job with the symphony already hangs by a thread. My little house barely fits me and Art. And Charlie...what would Charlie say? We haven't even defined what we are to each other, and now we might be parents?

Parents. The word lands like a boulder in my stomach.

I imagine Charlie holding a baby—our baby—with his blue eyes and my dark hair. The image is so vivid that it steals my breath. I've never thought of myself as particularly maternal. I have my music, my horses. A baby has always been some distant possibility, not an immediate reality with a man I've been dating for mere weeks.

The ventilation fan hums overhead, a steady counterpoint to my racing heart. Outside the stall, I hear the bathroom door open, voices filtering in—wedding guests, laughing about something. I freeze, holding my breath until they're gone.

My eyes fall to my still-flat stomach. Is there really a life growing in there? Half me, half Charlie? The thought makes me dizzy.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself. "Just breathe."

I need to find Jane. Jane will know what to do. She always does. And then I'll need to talk to Charlie. Properly, away from curious eyes and wagging tongues.

I push myself up from the toilet, my knees still unsteady. My reflection in the small metal mirror on the stall door shows a woman I barely recognize—her eyes too big, her skin too pale. I smooth my hair, put on a little lip gloss, and reach for the lock.

At the sink, I wash my hands methodically, watching water swirl down the drain. I'm stalling, and I know it.

"You can do this," I tell myself softly.