Page 70 of Made for Wilde
The pharmacy parking lot is half empty. I pull into a space near the entrance and sit for a moment, gathering courage. People walk in and out, carrying white paper bags with their medications, their vitamins, their band-aids and aspirin. Normal people doing normal things. Not people whose lives might be completely upended by two pink lines on a plastic stick.
I force myself to get out of the car. The automatic doors slide open with a whoosh that sounds like a sigh. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a clinical blue-white glow. I navigate toward the family planning aisle, keeping my head down.
The pregnancy tests are arranged in a neat row, their packaging screaming promises of accuracy and speed. Early detection. Results in three minutes. Over 99% accurate. Digital readout. I grab two different brands without really looking at them, just like Sarah said. My fingers feel numb, disconnected from my body.
I turn to head for the checkout and nearly collide with an elderly woman examining heartburn medication. She smiles kindly at me. I try to smile back but my face doesn’t cooperate.
The cashier is a middle-aged woman with reading glasses perched on her nose. She rings up my purchases without comment, but I imagine judgment in her eyes. Can she tell? Can she see the fear radiating off me in waves?
“That’ll be twenty-seven forty-two,” she says.
I dig in my purse for my wallet, my hands shaking so badly I drop a lip balm and my keys on the counter. The cashier patiently waits as I fumble with my debit card, swiping it wrong the first time, then again before finally getting it right.
“Would you like a bag?” she asks.
“Please,” I manage to croak out.
She slips the tests into a small paper bag and hands it to me. The bag feels impossibly heavy, like it contains bricks instead of two slim cardboard boxes. I clutch it to my chest and hurry toward the exit, not waiting for my receipt.
Back in my car, I set the bag on the passenger seat. It sits there, innocent and ordinary-looking, while my entire future might be folded inside it like some terrible origami surprise. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and take three deep breaths.
One test. That’s all it will take to know.
The road to Koda’s cabin twists up the mountain like a snake, each bend revealing pine trees and glimpses of the valley below. I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white, the pharmacy bag on the passenger seat like a ticking bomb. My mind spins faster than the tires, churning through possibilities and consequences. A baby. Maybe. Probably. A tiny person made from Koda and me, growing inside my body right now. The thought is so enormous I can barely contain it in the small space of my car.
I roll down the window, desperate for air. The fall mountain breeze rushes in, carrying the scent of pine and wild flowers. Normally, it calms me. Today, it just reminds me of how much has changed since I first drove up this road.
I pull up to the cabin, relieved to see Koda’s truck is gone. He mentioned morning training sessions at the gym today. I need this moment alone, need to process whatever answer awaits me on those little plastic sticks.
Inside, I drop my purse and head straight for the bathroom. My hands shake as I tear open the first box, skimming the instructions even though they’re simple enough. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line negative, two lines positive.
I follow the steps mechanically, setting the test on a tissue on the counter when I’m done. The second test follows, placed beside the first. My phone timer is set for three minutes.
Three minutes that will change everything.
I pace the small bathroom, the walls seeming to close in with every turn.
What kind of mom would I be? Twenty-one year old, beauty school student, hiding my relationship from my dad. Not exactly the stable foundation I’d imagined for starting a family.
And Koda. Would this heal the wound Vanessa left, or tear it open all over again? Would he see this baby as the second chance he never got, or a complication in an already complex situation?
The timer on my phone chimes, startling me from my thoughts. I freeze, suddenly afraid to look. Once I know, I can’t un-know.
With a deep breath, I step to the counter and look down at the first test.
Two pink lines, clear as day.
I grab the second test. Two lines again.
I sink down onto the edge of the bathtub, test still in hand, as the reality washes over me.
I’m pregnant.
My hand moves to my still-flat stomach, pressing gently against my sweater. There’s nothing to feel yet, no physical sign of the life taking form. A baby. Koda’s baby. Growing inside me right now.
The bathroom suddenly feels too small, too confined for the magnitude of this moment. I step into the hallway, tests still clutched in my hand, and move to the living room where theafternoon sun streams through the windows. The cabin looks different somehow, as if the news has already transformed the space, preparing it for the future that’s rushing toward us.
I sit on the couch, my mind cycling through what comes next. Telling Koda. Finishing school. Telling Dad. Building a life for three instead of two.
