24. Freya

CHAPTER 24

FREYA

I am impossibly tired. Like seriously exhausted tired. Like I've had to take a sick day tired. That is so unlike me, but I didn't have a choice. I can't work like this.

I nestle back into my bed and pull the covers over my head, breathing in the warm air. The last thing I want to do right now is get up, and I'm glad I don't need to. I'm all alone in the house right now, and it's blissful.

Matt's got a half day at school today, so it's not like I get the full day to myself, but I never mind spending some actual time with him. Even if I feel disgusting, it's good to hang out. I should probably get up before he comes home, but what I want to do is just sleep and sleep and sleep until this weird fever passes.

Sleeping is also a really good way to avoid thinking about Jackson. Well, eighty percent of the time, anyway. It's not like I can control having dreams about him. I wish I could.

It's been almost two weeks since I broke up with him, and I'm hurting even more than I expected to. And I expected it to hurt a lot.

Matt's been amazing this whole time, because of course he has. He's been there for me, helping me with dinner and getting himself to school today when I felt really sick. He's a good kid, and I love him so much I could eat him.

It gets harder, though, when Jackson won't leave it alone, especially when I'm trying so hard to stand by my decision and not cave. The other night, he texted to say that if we wanted to go, he could get us the best seats in the house for the World Series game.

Of course, I didn't watch the qualifying game, but Matt did, and the cheers of victory told me everything I needed to know. I felt certain that Matt was going to hate the fact that I let the professional baseballer get away, but if he does resent me for it, he hasn't let it show at all. Maybe I should take Jackson up on the tickets for Matt's sake.

But I also don't know what to say in reply. So I haven't even read the message again since we got it.

I shut my eyes and groan. Maybe I caught a bug or something from the hospital. It happens, and it would be a nice explanation for what's going on. Tidy. And so much easier than contemplating some facts I'm trying very hard to ignore.

I don't like to ignore facts. I like to be a good nurse and confront the truth, even if it's hard. I like to make patients feel truly cared for, and I know I should do the same for myself.

Somehow it's harder for me, though.

I barely want to think about it, but the fact is, my period is late and I am usually as regular as clockwork. It would be easy to pretend, but I'll never be satisfied until I know for sure.

Unfortunately, finding that out means I'm going to have to subject myself to the humiliation of buying a pregnancy test.

I look at my phone, bright under the darkness of my covers. Matt won't be home for a while yet, so this seems like perfect timing. I can do this without him knowing, then if it's negative, I can pretend it never happened — and if it's positive, I can work out what to say later.

I clench my fists and throw the covers off me. I still feel sick, but I have a quest now, so I'm not going to spend any more time worrying about anything. And telling myself that enough times might even make it true.

Fortunately, there's a pharmacy about fifteen minutes from the apartment, so I shove on a hoodie and my running shoes, grab my purse, and head out of the house. A walk will do me some good as well. The fresh air can't hurt, and I can just choose not to think about Jackson. Easy .

I don't know why I'm embarrassed to be going into the store. It's not like I'm going to run into anyone I know. And even if I do, it's not abnormal to be going to the pharmacy on my day off, especially when it's a sick day. Not that anyone would question it — but if they did, I could very easily write it off as going to get some medication.

The air conditioning blasts onto my face when I step inside, a nice relief from the warm day outside. Even though it's September now, it's still weirdly warm outside.

Ironically, I was just talking to some of the midwives about pregnancy testing. They were telling me about how the newer ones are way too expensive for what they are, and at the end of the day, all you need to know is yes or no. All that stuff about how far along you are is basically just stuff the hospital is going to tell you anyway.

Still, I don't want to get the cheapest one. But I also don't really feel like spending forty dollars on a stick that I have to pee on.

I clench my fists, take a breath, and walk with as much confidence as I can muster over to the baby-care aisle. The packages all scream at me in muted pinks and soft purples, claiming all sorts of things that I don't really need to know. I don't exactly need to take a DNA test to know who the father is.

I don't get how this could have happened, though. It's not like we weren't careful. We always used protection. As I stand there, the prices wavering in front of my eyes, I'm racking my brains trying to figure out just when this could have happened. I guess protection isn't perfect, or maybe there was one time where we didn't use a condom even though we knew it was a bad idea. I mean, we're both clean, so it's not like it was that big of a mistake. Sort of.

I shake my head trying to expel all these thoughts. It's not worth dwelling on now. Arbitrarily, I grab two of the mid-range tests and shove them in the basket that I picked up to hide them.

Then I hurry over to the cashier, wishing desperately that they had self-service in this place, and dump the basket on the counter with a thud.

"Hi, honey. How you doing today?" says the lady behind the desk. She looks down at the tests as she picks them up. "This could be exciting," she grins.

"Yeah," I say noncommittally.

"What are you hoping for?"

I shrug, trying not to let my discomfort show too much on my face. "I don't know," I tell her. And that's actually true.

There are two paths here. One will bring the relief of not having to tell anyone that I ever did this. And the other might bring Jackson back to me.

These are thoughts I can't contemplate now, though. I broke up with him. I can't just go letting him back in because I'm pregnant.

Oh, my God — what if I'm pregnant?

"Well, I bet it'll be exciting to tell the daddy," says the cashier, blundering into a conversation she can't see I don't want to have. "When my husband and I got pregnant, we were taking tests all the time, and he'd sit in the bathroom with me holding my hand until the result came through. We were so delighted when it was positive."

"I bet," I mutter.

"So, your total is forty-two dollars, thirteen cents. Cash or credit?"

"Credit," I say, whipping out my plastic card.

"Just go ahead and slide that in when you're ready," she says, then giggles at the dirty joke she just accidentally made. I don't react. The machine seems to take an age, and the whole time I feel watched, like somebody I know is going to see me and question me and know exactly what's going on.

Finally, my receipt starts printing out. "Well, good luck, honey. I bet you'll be an amazing mom."

"Thanks," I say curtly. "Can I have a bag?"

She smiles sympathetically as she hands me a brown paper bag, and I snatch it away from her slightly too harshly. "Thank you," I say, trying to make up for how rude I'm being. She just beams at me and gives me a little wink.

I hurry home and head straight into the bathroom. My hands shaking, I open both boxes and lay out all the contents on the bathroom counter. It's not exactly a difficult process, but I still hesitate, not quite ready to face what either of these tests could reveal.

I just have to stop wavering. It's best to just get it done, like a vaccine or removing a Band-Aid.

With as much dignity as I can muster — which when you're peeing on a tiny stick is not a whole lot — I take both tests and set them back on the counter. I could sit and stare at them for five minutes, or I could do the sensible thing and set a timer and go and do something else.

I take the middle ground between both options, choosing to set a timer and then sit on the floor in terror.

If there's a child inside me, what am I going do? It's not that I don't want kids. I'm just not ready for them. Between Matt and my job, all of my time is taken up, and by all accounts newborns are even more high-maintenance than teenagers, so how am I going to find the time to look after a baby and Matt?

He would be wonderful with a kid, even though he's a kid himself. I could trust him with anything, so I'm not worried about that. It's Jackson I'm having nervous palpitations over.

A vision of him teaching our kids to play baseball flashes through my mind, and I can't help but laugh to myself. "Stop it," I mutter quietly. "This is pointless."

He'll be upset if I don't tell him, but I also don't know how to. I don't think I could bear it if he reacts badly. I don't think I could cope with it if he didn't want anything to do with me ever again. I mean, that's pretty much how we are now. But breaking up is one thing; being an estranged father is another.

It was easier for me in a way, without my dad. I was old enough to remember him leaving, so I knew he didn't care. And even though I still miss him, I know there's no force on earth that could make him come back. He wasn't ready to be a dad. As an adult, I can understand it.

Now, of all times, I think I can forgive it. As I sit here on my bathroom floor, three seconds away from bursting into tears, I can understand it all. The fear of the enormity of the rest of my life stretches out in front of me, and thinking about my dad makes me want to cry even more than I already do.

All of this is like a floodgate, like picking a scab on a wound that hasn't healed and it's gushing blood all over the floor. I don't want that for my baby.

So, what do I do if Jackson gives me no choice?

With a shrill beep, the alarm goes off and I jump, smacking my hand into the cabinet. "Shit!" I yell.

Then I stand up and look before I can think about it.

I stare at the tests in horror, my stomach dropping to my feet. I know I've been ignoring Jackson unfairly, but now the message isn't just going to be, "Hey, I don't feel like coming to the game," but instead, "Hey, I don't feel like coming to the game. Also, by the way, I'm pregnant with your baby. Surprise!"

About a thousand different drafts of that text fly through my head, and not one of them sounds any good. I want to burst into tears, but I'm too numb to do anything.

And before I can get anywhere near crying, there's a knock on the bathroom door and Matt bursts in, his mouth dropping open as he takes in the scene before him.

Shit .