Page 42 of Living for Truth (Broken Shelves #2)

Hannah

I stare at the calendar, then at my birth control packet, counting the days again. I’ve done the calculations four times, and I get the same answer.

My period is two weeks late.

It’s been a month since Morgan and I had sex for the first time, but I swear I’ve been taking my birth control at the same time every day and haven’t missed a pill since I started it six months ago.

This cannot be happening.

We’ve had the most amazing month. In the beginning, I only slept over on the weekends because Aly was in school, but now that she’s not, I sleep over a few nights a week.

She comes to Morgan’s flower classes at the library every Thursday, and sometimes I bring her to work with me when I think she’ll like the activity for the day.

Morgan and I have gotten really good at being quiet during sex, and on the nights Aly wants to spend with someone else when we have the house to ourselves, we’re insatiable.

And now that’s all going to change because I might be pregnant.

He’s going to think I lied to him about wanting kids. He’s going to think I’m trying to baby-trap him, and he’s going to hate me.

I don’t want Morgan to go through the heartbreak of losing a baby, and if my body has proven anything, it’s that babies are not safe inside it.

I take a sick day from work and rush to the nearest drugstore to get three different types of pregnancy tests.

When I get back to my apartment, I follow the instructions to a T, like I have so many times before, and anxiously wait for the results.

It feels like hours when my timer finally goes off, but before I can go back into the bathroom and see the results, there’s a knock on my door.

Dread bleeds from every pore on my body, my stomach falling to the floor because I know who’s there before I open it.

I open the door just a crack to find a concerned Morgan. “Hi, Butterfly. You feeling okay? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Sick day. Don’t want you to get sick,” I say, my voice hoarse from crying.

“Can I come in and check on you, please? I don’t care about getting sick. I care about you.”

He sounds so earnest, so concerned, I can’t say no. I step back and let him come in the door, and he rushes around me, looking for signs of illness. He places a hand on my forehead to check my temperature, then on my cheeks.

“You don’t seem to have a fever. What’s going on?”

Tears well in my eyes, anxiety crawling up my spine. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to be mad at me.

But I have to.

Wordlessly, I walk to the bathroom and pick up the three tests I took and pad back to where he’s still standing right inside the door. I don’t even look at them, just hand them to him and step back, wrapping my arms around my midsection like that will protect me.

He blinks at me a few times before looking at the tests.

“You’re pregnant.” He doesn’t say it as a question. He takes a big breath, “ We’re pregnant?” This time it is a question.

My thoughts spiral a little because his tone is unreadable, and I refuse to look at him right now.

He walks over to the couch and sits down, then stands back up and comes over to me, dragging me over to sit with him.

“Hannah, please look at me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I sob, my voice breaking on the last word.

“No, Butterfly, no. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He rubs a hand up and down my spine, but it does little to soothe my anxiety.

“I swear I was taking my birth control religiously. I don’t—I don’t understand how this happened!

I promise I’m not trying to baby-trap you.

I don’t even know if this pregnancy will last longer than a few weeks, and I don’t want you to hate me or have to go through the pain of a miscarriage. You don’t deserve that.”

His hand stills on my back, and he’s pulling my hands to his so I’m forced to turn and look at him.

There’s a sheen of tears in his own eyes as he speaks, “I don’t hate you, Hannah.

I could never hate you. I don’t think you’re trying to trap me with a baby.

This isn’t your fault. Birth control is never one-hundred percent effective, so there was always a chance this could happen.

As far as me not deserving to go through the pain of a miscarriage, you are the one who doesn't deserve to go through that again.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course I’m not mad, Butterfly. I’m shocked, but I’m not upset. We do have to make some decisions, though. Mostly you. You have the hardest choice to make.”

“What choice is there to make?”

“Whether or not you want to keep this baby. If you decide you want to terminate so you don’t have to worry about potentially losing the baby later on, then I will drive you to the clinic and stay by your side.

But… if you want to keep the baby, I will do everything I can to support you and make sure you and this baby are healthy and taken care of.

We will see the best doctors, and I’ll research the best prenatal vitamins.

Whatever you choose, though, I will be here for you as your partner .

Because you didn’t get pregnant by yourself.

I was an active and willing participant. ”

The tears won’t stop flowing down my face, a mixture of intense relief, overwhelming anxiety, and an abundance of love sit heavy in my chest.

Morgan’s words rattle around in my head and settle into my heart, and I know without a shadow of a doubt he means what he says. He truly would take me to the clinic if it was what I wanted, but…

“I want to keep the baby,” I whisper. The decision settles into my chest, and I feel at peace with it. I know there’s still a chance I won’t carry to term, but it’s a risk I want to take with Morgan.

Morgan nods. “Then we’ll keep the baby. I’ll make a call to the best OBGYN in the state and get you an appointment. And I want you to move in with me.”

“What? No, that’s too much,” I protest, even though the thought of moving in together makes my heart soar.

“It’s not, Butterfly. I want to be able to keep an eye on you as much as possible.

If I thought you’d quit your job and stay by my side twenty-four-seven I’d ask you to do that, but I know how important your job is to you.

I want to tell Sage, if you’re comfortable with that, so she can help keep me updated. ”

“I’m not fragile, Morgan. I don’t need you to watch me all the time.

” The words hold very little fight because his protectiveness feels good.

It doesn't feel suffocating or demeaning.

Do I think he needs to keep tabs on me all day every day?

No. But the thought that he cares so much about my health and the wellness of this baby makes me love him more than I thought was possible.

“I know that, Butterfly. But your health and the health and well-being of this baby are my priority.”

“What about Aly?”

“I think she’ll be ecstatic you’re moving in. I don't want to tell her about the baby yet, though. I think telling her about it prematurely might be confusing if the worst happens.”

I nod. “She’s your daughter, so I’m following your lead on that front.”

Morgan shakes his head. “You may not be her mother biologically, but you’ve been more of a mom to her in the last month than Whitney has in nine years. We’re a team, Hannah. We do this together. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Now, tell me how you’re feeling. Any nausea or headaches or anything?”

“Nothing yet, but I’m probably only about four or five weeks if I base it on my last period.”

“When did it usually start in your last pregnancies?”

“Usually around ten weeks, but I only made it past twelve weeks once so sometimes I never even felt sick, just bloated.”

“God, Hannah. I am so fucking sorry you went through that. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” He places a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I’m going to go call my parents and have them bring Aly here so we can tell her about you moving in, and then we’re getting you moved this weekend. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Butterfly. So much.”

“I love you, too.”

Morgan steps out of the apartment to call his parents, and I finally glance at the pregnancy tests on the coffee table. The digital one has a bold pregnant in the little window, and the others have two very dark pink lines. Weird, when I took tests before, the line was barely visible.

I place my hand over my stomach and whisper to the little pea-sized baby inside me,“I want you to stay right there for at least thirty-six weeks. Please don’t leave me.”