Page 111 of The Infiniteness of Yesterday
My heart races when the toilet flushes in the bathroom. The sink runs and then the door creaks open and she joins me back in her room, shutting the door behind her. Her parents aren’t home, but they could be any time.
She sets the test down on her end table. Staring at it for a moment, she turns and paces back and forth a bit before she sits beside me, our legs and hips touching.
I see how scared she is. It’s written plainly in the frown lines that downturn her lips. Wrapping my arms around her, I kiss the top of her head.
“Whatever it says, we’re going to be okay.”
She sniffles. “I’m only seventeen. I’m too young to be a mom.”
“I know.” I close my eyes. “It might be negative.”
“It might,” she agrees, but I don’t detect an ounce of believability in her voice.
She flops back on her bed. “What are we going to do?”
I lay back and roll over, propping my head in my hand. “We’re going to take things one step at a time, starting with waiting to see what the test says.”
“My parents are going to kill us.”
I force a smile. “You’re not doing a very good job at this whole wait and see thing.”
Her lips tug down in a frown. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my period is never late.”
“I know,” I sigh, and join her prone position, staring up at the ceiling. Truth be told, I have little hope that the test will be negative, but I’ve tried to remain positive for her benefit.
“How long has it been?” she asks a minute or so later.
I check the watch on my wrist. “Long enough.”
She bites her lip. “Will you look?”
I don’t want to, but if it’ll make her feel better for me to check first then I’ll do whatever it takes to make her feel better. Sitting up, I lean over to swipe the test off the nightstand. I splurged and got a box of digital ones so there could be no confusion on our part. A very clean PREGNANT 4-6 weeks stares up at me.
My throat constricts and I struggle to get my breath.
All she has to do is read my expression and she bursts into tears. “I told you,” she sobs.
I set the test down and pull my girl into my arms.
I feel sick to my stomach. This is my fault. I wanted to wait, and I took the precautions I could, but it obviously wasn’t good enough.
Harlow clings to me as she sobs, her hand fisted in the fabric of my hoodie.
I feel like shit.
“Baby,” I murmur, kissing her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
She hiccups a sob. “It’s not your fault.”
“It kinda is,” I grit out.
That only makes her cry harder, and she gets out a garbled, “No it’s not. Two to tango.”
I’m not how much later it is when she manages to move from heaving sobs to small sniffling.
I wipe the dampness from her face. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her.
“How do you know that?” she asks, her voice hoarse from crying.
