Page 58 of The Temptation of Truth

“Two lines mean pregnant, Auri, even if the second line is faint. It’s not that hard. I told you we should have done a video call.”

My lungs hurt, and I force myself to breathe.That’s the one, he’d said. The last time we had sex, he was certain.That’s the one. What if he was right? What if I am? What now?

Time’s up,he said.

What if it is?

I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I shouldn’t feel like I’m drowning. Like the padlock to my cage is about to be welded shut. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I do, and it hurts so badly.

My inhale is shaky when I force myself to open my eyes. Tears well as I stare into the mirror at my reflection. What a mess. I swipe at my cheeks with the hand not threatening to crush the cell phone.

What have I done?

Suffocating.

I’m suffocating.

“Aurora. What the hell. Are you there? What’s it say?”

I clear my throat. “I’m here.”

“Hold on. I’m going to video call.”

“No.” I clear my throat again. “No, it’s okay. I can read it.”

“If you’re struggling, then I can?—”

“No.” The word comes out louder and more forceful than I intended, and I rush to fix it. “It’s fine. It’s okay. I said I can read it.”

“Fine. So what does it say?”

I search my reflection as if searching for a way out. I find none. My face has drained of color; the green in my watery eyes pops against the red rims, and all I see is loss. My stomach falls to my feet, and I finally turn my attention to the pregnancy test.

I focus on the narrow blue end first and count the grooves in the plastic. Four, with a slight, rounded indentation for a thumb to grip. User-friendly design, I suppose.

Then I move to the brand logo displayed on the white. The gray block lettering is plain and inoffensive, but it brings a scowl to my face. Resentment bubbles inside me, bile climbing in my throat, and I feel like I might vomit.

Brady groans, and I flinch. As if his voice serves as a physical shove, my eyes jerk forward, stumbling to the two small rectangles meant to deliver my sentence. Judge and jury.

I’m not ready, but who am I kidding? I’ll never be ready.

I exhale slowly through my nose and let my eyes focus on the results. I read them twice through the water in my eyes. I fit my thumb into the perfect indentation on the narrow, blue end, and bring the test closer to my face, blinking to clear my vision of tears so I can read the results a third time before they blur again. I make certain I’m reading it correctly. Make certain my tear-flooded eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.

“One line.” It escapes on an exhale that’s followed by a choked sob. “Negative. I’m not pregnant.”

Brady swears on the other end of the phone, but I barely hear him over the sound of my rapid heartbeat and labored breathing. With trembling fingers, I bury the test at the bottom of the bathroom trash and pile a handful of tissues on top of it for good measure. As soon as it is out of view, I drop into a squat and put my head between my knees.

One line. Negative.

Time’s not up.

I still have time.

“It’s okay, Auri.”

Brady’s voice fades in and out as I work to settle myself, the adrenaline of my panic bleeding from my body like air leaking from a punctured tire. My hands shake and my cheeks start to cool as the tears slow.

“Don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”