“Okay, buddy. Okay.” Norton held out both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know, I see you giving your all to classes, to the military training, and to football, and I wonder when it’s all going to be too much. When you’re going to crack under the pressure.”
I shook my head. “All I know is that it’s not going to be today. Or this weekend, when we have our first game of the season.”
“Right. Fine.” Norton headed toward the door once again. “Well, have fun. Or don’t. I’ll be back before lights out. See ya.”
Frustration roiled in my gut, frustration at always being the guy who didn’t play, who stayed in and studied, who didn’t give it all a break once or twice. I raised my voice before my roommate could get too far away.
“Norton!”
Frowning, he poked his head back through the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Thanks. For caring about me, and for worrying that I’m driving myself too hard. I know you mean well.” I paused for a beat. “I just have to be more than I would have been if I’d stayed back in that tiny Pennsylvania town. You know? Once I graduate and get settled in my first post, I promise that I’ll let up a little then.” I raised one hand as though I were taking an oath. “You can hold me to that.”
“Okay.” Norton smiled just slightly. “I’m not being an asshole about this just for funsies, Dean. Because even though you might not realize it, I do pay attention, and I know things. And one I’ve seen is that when you think you can handle everything, have it all, do it all, life comes along and throws you a curve ball just to prove you wrong.”
I turned back toward my laptop, smirking. “Yeah? Well, I’m a tough son of a bitch. Life can go ahead and toss me that wild pitch—I can deal with whatever comes my way.”
ChapterThree
Willow
Back when I’d first sent my application to St. Barnabas College, I’d looked forward to the prospect of making the four-hour drive from West Point to the campus, if they had offered me an interview. In my mind, I’d pictured myself listening to podcasts and rocking along to my favorite playlists on the trip over and then talking on the phone with Cindy and Vi on my way back. I’d anticipated a relaxing time, filled with anticipation of the next phase of my life.
Instead, the car was silent except for the steady rhythm of the tires on the crappy Connecticut highway. In my head, they were repeating the words that had been on a loop in my brain since last week.
You might be pregnant. You might be pregnant. You might be pregnant.
For nearly a solid twenty-four hours, I’d managed to convince myself that everything was fine. I was just dealing with stress. Every woman dealt with erratic cycles sometimes, and considering the upheaval my recent life had been—traveling home from Europe, staying with Cindy and Vi, adjusting to being back at home with my parents—it wasn’t any wonder that my insides were as rattled as my emotions were. As a matter of fact, the tension I was struggling with right now could be the best explanation for my late period.
And then, about thirty-six hours after my phone call with Dr. Rogers, I’d awoken feeling such overwhelming nausea that I thought I might die. The two hours of dry-heaving over the toilet had been followed by deep exhaustion that I couldn’t ignore—I’d had to curl up in bed and sleep until after lunch.
I wasn’t stupid. Even though I wasn’t at all interested in having children at this point in my life, I’d seen enough in movies and books to know that morning sickness and fatigue were two big signs of pregnancy. So as I’d lay in bed that morning, I’d forced myself to look up other symptoms.
Breast tenderness?Check. Of course, that could be considered a premenstrual signal, too. I decided to put it in the neutral column.
Frequent urination? Hmmm. I thought about the last few weeks. Yes, now that I really considered it, I’d had to pee more often. But maybe I’d just been drinking more water since I’d been home with ready access to it. I decided to come back to that one.
Sensitivity to smell?Shit. Yes, the other day, when my mother had sautéed onions for our steak, I’d almost gagged and complained that the smell was horrible. But it hadn’t seemed to bother anyone else. So . . . that went into the pregnancy positive column.
Light spotting/discharge?Nope! Okay, one for the win, also known as the not-pregnant column.
Change in appetite?Ugh. Yes, I’d eaten an entire party-sized bag of vinegar potato chips last week. Also, I’d noticed—absently, without any real concern attached to it—that while I wasn’t interested in lunch, I was ravenous by dinner every night. Without any other rational explanation, I’d grudgingly put that into the probably pregnant column.
I’d considered buying a pregnancy test, but then I’d immediately dismissed that idea. First of all, I had already figured out that West Point was a surprisingly small community, and because lots of people knew my dad as the football coach and then by extension, also knew who my mother was, going incognito wasn’t exactly an option for me. And even if I managed to buy a test without anyone seeing me, doing it at home was a risky proposition.
That was why I’d decided that if my errant period hadn’t arrived by the time I got to Boston today, I’d bite the bullet and take a test tonight, after the interview, while I was at the hotel where I was spending the night.
But maybe I wouldn’t have to do it. This morning, I’d managed to get out of bed and on the road to Boston without puking. And here I was, driving to St. Barnabas without any of the tiredness the pregnancy website had described. I took a deep breath, my eyes steady on the road in front of me, as I visualized what I wanted to happen.
I’d go to the interview. And while I was dazzling Dr. Rogers with my impressive understanding of historical archeology, I’d get a weird twinge low in my belly. I’d realize that it was a sign of my period, and as soon as the interview was over, I’d hurry to the restroom and rejoice that my worry had been ridiculous. After all, I’d had one night of sex with Dean, the guy I’d met in Pennsylvania, and we had used condoms each time. It was virtually impossible that I was pregnant!
I held onto that hope as I parked the car I’d borrowed from my mother and followed the directions Dr. Rogers had given to me, making my way to her office. The secretary at the desk just inside the department door greeted me with a warm smile.
“Willow Casey? Welcome to St. Barnabas! Dr. Rogers is ready for you!” she announced. “Go right in.” And then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I hope you’re hungry. We ordered in lunch from Dr. Rogers’ favorite deli, and we might have gone a little overboard!”
Hungry?Suddenly, the nausea that I’d managed to elude earlier slammed into me like a freight train.Holy shit. I dragged in a shaky breath, forced my lips into the approximation of a smile, and opened the door.
“Ms. Casey. Thank you for coming.” Dr. Rogers wasn’t unusually tall, but she carried herself in such a way to appear that she was. Her hair was white, falling to her shoulders in gentle waves. The suit she wore was a pale green and obviously well-made and, if I had to guess, cost more than all of the clothes in my closet back at my parents’ house.
