4. Cassidy

Pick up. Or I will murder you. Pick up. Or I'll drive six hours to turn you into a skin suit. Fucking pick up.

I telepathically threaten my best friend, Blair, while pacing my kitchen. When her smiling face appears on the video call, I burst into tears for approximately the thirteenth time this morning. Truthfully, I'm shocked I have tears left to shed.

"Hey, oh my God." Her face blanches at the sight of me. "Sorry I missed all your calls. I've been swamped at work. What's going on?"

I scrub my hands over my face, smearing mascara and snot. A rattling, painful breath overinflates my lungs, and there's no option but to scream to release it. A blood-curdling, peel-the-wallpaper type of scream.

"Cass. What the fuck is going on? Is somebody dead? What's happening?"

"I don't even know. You're the medical professional, so please tell me." I bite my lip, frantically wiping my blurry eyes with my free hand, and tap my phone screen to switch to the rear-facing camera. Showing her the half-dozen pregnancy tests I've peed on so far today.

"Cassidy!"

"That's why I've called you eighty billion times. I'm freaking the fuck out here."

"Holy fucking shit! I don't think you needed to take that many tests, but kudos to you for being so well-hydrated. No need for my medical advice, Cass. You're definitely pregnant."

Obviously, I knew that. The second pink line showed up within minutes. Super pregnant. So pregnant I didn't need to wait the full timespan on the instructions for confirmation. So pregnant the test line is somehow darker than the control. But hearing her say it out loud hits me like a ton of bricks.

"What do I do?" I ask her, while also talking to myself.

"Well, okay… speaking as your nurse practitioner, you have options. Do you know what they are?"

"Yeah, yeah. In theory, I do. I just need you to tell me which one to pick."

She laughs under her breath. "You need to decide for yourself. I mean, if you really want input, you could always tell Derek… but only if you want to. It's not his decision, at the end of the day."

Derek.She assumes I'm pregnant with Derek's baby. Of course she does. That's what everybody will assume. And I could've easily convinced myself that was the case, except I got my period the day after we broke up. The phone hits the table, and I bury my head in my hands.

"Except…" I scrunch my nose up and catch her staring back with wide eyes. "He isn't the sperm donor, so there's no sense involving him."

"You've been holding out on me? You found a rebound guy and didn't bother to tell me about it? Here I thought we were best friends, asshole. Who's the guy?"

"I can't tell you. It's the most embarrassing thing. I drank a lot, and it was a moment of weakness—I mean, clearly, I was ovulating at the time. So we'll chalk it up to primal instinct."

"Cassidy Marie Bowman. Tell me this instant. I've been your best friend for close to thirty years and I demand to know who you slept with to get over your moldy muffin of an ex."

I don't know if the nausea is morning sickness or anxiety induced, but I take a long sip of water to get rid of the bad taste in my mouth. And to delay the inevitable.

"Nobody can know this, okay?"

"Sure. Unless you decide to keep the baby… then I think people will find out."

I cover my mouth with my hand, letting the word trickle out from between my fingers. "Red."

"Thompson? Are you messing with me? What the hell were you thinking?"

"I told you. Ovulation. I was at the mercy of thousands of years of human instinct and a few too many beers."

"Wait… hold up. Didn't you have a crush on him at one point? Maybe that's why you chose him to hook up with. Do you secretly have a crush on him still?"

"Don't you dare. I was twelve and collected crushes as a hobby. I had a crush on Max from A Goofy Movie, for Christ's sake. Briefly liking Red when I was a dumb kid means absolutely nothing."

"Oh my God, I forgot about your Max phase." She laughs so intensely it turns into nothing but a wheeze. "To be fair… I kind of get Red's allure. He's always been hot for a ginger, and puberty did good things for him. I think it's honestly better than if you were pregnant with Derek's baby. Fuck that cheating prick. Red might have a temper and be rough around the edges and be a bit of a manwhore and—"

"You're not doing a great job selling him. I know I fucked up. Derek and Alyssa came to the rodeo. He said some rude shit. Ugh, and he looked at me like I was the pathetic one between us." My blood pressure rises thinking about the interaction. "Red was available and willing to help me get back at him, so we fucked on the hood of Derek's car. Left behind some scratches in the paint, and I think he actually hung the condom off the side mirror afterward."

Blair cackles. Doubling over with laughter and accidentally dropping her phone on the hospital floor.

"Fuck, that's incredible. Did I just become team Red?" When she picks the phone back up, tears brim her lower lids and she's massaging her cheek muscles. "Okay. Anyway, my point stands. If you want input, I guess you'll have to talk to Red then."

"I'd feel better if you didn't chuckle every time you say his name." I pick up test after test, staring at the taunting parallel lines, pacing the small space between my kitchen and living room. "I'm not talking to him about this."

"It's your choice anyway, babe. How are you feeling? Any nasty pregnancy symptoms?"

"My tits hurt so bad I want to chop them off, I'm sleeping fourteen hours a day and could use more, throwing up multiple times per day, and Red is the father. Guess you could say I'm living the dream."

Living in full delusion, I told myself it was a stomach bug for the first three days. Then decided it had to be a PCOS flare-up. Until there was no denying the reality of what was happening.

"With any luck, you'll feel a bit better in a few weeks… until all the other symptoms start, anyway. Then it'll go to shit again."

"Thanks for that little ray of hope, you jerk."

"Cass… you don't have to keep it."

"Yeah." I swallow the saliva suddenly pooling in the back of my throat. "It's just… I don't know if I can do that—no offense."

"Hey, I said it's your decision. Just because I made a different choice doesn't mean I'm trying to sway you. Remember that, even with your PCOS and Hashimoto's, if it happened once it can happen again. You don't have to have a baby right now, if you don't want to. But if you want to, then I'll support the crap out of your decision."

"Yeah… I'll think about it."

"Good. I gotta run and finish my shift. Keep me updated on everything, please? I wish I could be there with you in person so we could co-parent. Sister wives without a husband." She glances up from the phone screen and frowns at something in the distance. "I love you. Call me later, yeah?"

"Love you." I tap to hang up and fling myself onto the plush, grey sofa.

Fuck.

There are options. Just because I'm thirty-one-years-old doesn't mean I'm in a place where I'm prepared to have a baby. This was supposed to be something I did once I had my shit together. With somebody I care about. In a situation where the whole town wouldn't talk about me. I wanted a well-thought-out plan to follow, not a future full of unknowns and chaos.

I also have two endocrine disorders I was told would make it harder for me to get pregnant—and stay pregnant. One messes with my thyroid, and the other my ovaries. Basically, some part of my body is hurting at any given moment, no matter what I do I'll never be skinny, and my hair is consistently either falling out or growing in places I'd prefer it didn't. The only thing worse than living with Hashimoto's Disease and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome is the years I spent suffering without explanation. At least now things are fairly well managed with medication.

After hearing the diagnosis spiel from my doctor, I naively thought it would take months or years of trying to conceive, not a spur of the moment hookup and a defective condom. Clearly I've been fed a load of horseshit, based on the tests strewn across my kitchen table.

Even still, I can't shake the fear of infertility I've had since the day I was diagnosed five years ago. Anxiety grabs hold of the reins, veering me toward the decision that seems to be the most obvious choice. Even if it's also the most terrifying.

I'm having a baby.

My head hits the steering wheel with a sob outside of the doctor's office in Sheridan following blood confirmation and an official approximation of how far along I am.

Eight weeks.

In the days since those two pink lines, I haven't left my bed… except to throw up. It worked well enough to tell my dad I had the flu. Thankfully, because I'm a server in his bar, he insisted I stay far away. Which means I've been left alone to think. Crying, panicking, binge-watching bad early-2000s reality television, and trying—though failing miserably—to come up with a solid plan for how to handle this. Waiting impatiently for the bloodwork to confirm what my boobs and digestive system were already telling me.

It's real. I'm pregnant.

It's actually happening.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I'm armed with an ultrasound booked for next week, a container of prenatal vitamins, and a sample of ginger candies to curb nausea. I chuck three into my mouth and immediately dry heave at the taste, spitting them out on the highway back to Wells Canyon. Not long after, I toss the entire container out the window because simply looking at the plastic bottle makes me want to vomit.

The drive home is done on autopilot, vision blurred and head foggy. Scared shitless, I pull my car into its usual spot outside The Horseshoe. So early in the day, the parking lot is empty save for heat waves radiating off the dark cement and my dad's old Ford. My legs shake so violently, it's a struggle to get out of the car and walk into The Horseshoe. Like a shadow of a girl, I float outside my body—attached but not fully me. The August mid-morning sun beats down on my shoulders while I catch my breath, staring up at the neon bar sign hanging above the entrance.

Maybe this doesn't need to be done right now. It could wait another day or two. It might be fun to turn up with a baby in approximately thirty-one weeks. Metaphorically hard-launch a baby like all the trendy people do online when they get a new boyfriend. Then again, I can't afford to feed myself if I don't work, and my dad will storm my house if I stay holed up for too long. I need to tell him sooner rather than later. Rip the bandage off.

Dad's stocking the shelves when I drag my sorry ass through the front doors and sit on a worn, wooden bar stool. The same bar stool I've perched on at least a million times. Scribbling in colouring books as a toddler, doing homework as a kid, eating French fries and texting friends as a teenager, and drinking after a long shift in my twenties. Raised by a single dad with strict rules about me going out, I spent an inordinate amount of time in the bar when I was underage; this bar stool and Dad's spinny chair in his office were my usual babysitters.

It's not a fancy establishment, but it's home. With mismatched chairs, a couch that probably should've been burned twenty years ago, and a TV with a faulty volume control that makes it either deafening or muted. Not a single inch of the small wooden dance floor is without a scuff or dent. The far corner—next to the Pull-tab machine and unplugged jukebox—may as well be sporting a reserved placard because nobody sits there but Wells Ranch cowboys.

Today, the familiar scent of alcohol, fried food, and Bar Keepers Friend cleanser make my stomach turn. But I know if I turn around and leave, I'll never work up the courage to tell my dad what's going on.

"Hey, kiddo. If you're still feeling crappy you gotta get outta here. I can't risk getting people sick." Judging by the concern on his face, I must look at least half as terrible as I feel.

"I'm fine, Dad. Well… I'm not fine. But I'm not contagious."

Tossing his cleaning rag down, he rushes around the end of the bar to rub slow circles on my back. "Are you having a bad PCOS flare-up? Do we need to take you to the doctor? I can shut things down for the night and drive—"

"Dad. I just came from the doctor." I interrupt, speaking around the uncomfortable lump in my throat. The longer I sit here, shaking and letting him coddle me, the harder it's going to be to say what I came here to say. "I'm not having a flare-up. I got blood work done today to check my medication dosages, and it's all good. My endocrinologist is actually going to be keeping an extra close eye on me for the next while because…" I close my eyes and let out an exhale. "Because I'm pregnant."

His shoulders drop, taking my heart along with them. Fuck. For at least a full minute, he's completely silent. And I wish he would scream at me or throw something. Anger would be less heavy than pure disappointment.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for… I think I'm going to—no, I know I'm keeping it. So… surprise." Jazz hands do nothing to turn this into exciting news; I tuck my wiggling fingers into my armpits and stare at him.

"Oh, Cassie." He sighs. "I don't know what to say… This isn't what I wanted for you, but I guess that doesn't matter now, does it?" His massive hand rubs across my forearm, and I fall into him. Like a little girl, holding tight to my daddy's chest and soaking his shirt with my tears. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay. Have you talked to Derek?"

"No." He doesn't need to know Derek's not the father. One shocking piece of news at a time. We can cover that in a separate conversation down the road. "I'm not going to."

"And you're sure that you're going to…" The words come out hoarse, dying off before he finishes saying what I think he wants to say.

I mutter against the clean-smelling shirt fabric, "Yes, I'm sure. I'm keeping the baby."

"Well, against all odds, I raised a beautiful, strong woman on my own. I have no doubt you'll do an amazing job without that cheating bastard. And you have my help—always." He kisses the top of my head, patting my hair until I stop weeping.

"Thanks, Dad." I dab at the corners of my eyes with my shirt sleeve. "Good thing I have the best parent to learn from."

"And, on the upside, this means I get to be a grandpa. I gotta admit, that's pretty cool. Even if I'm way too young to be a grandpa." He lightly nudges me with his elbow.

Sniffling, I smile for the first time. "Yeah, pretty cool."

"Are you doing okay, kiddo?"

I snort. "Not at all. I'm freaking the hell out on top of feeling terrible all the time—seriously, why call it morning sickness when it's an all-day thing?"

"Your mom was sick as a dog with you, too. It'll get better and, I can tell you first hand, it'll be so worth it. This baby is going to be the best thing that's ever happened to you—ask me how I know. Let's have some ice cream. That always helps when you're feeling down."

I gag. "Hard pass."