“It’s not a fever dream, it’s a vision.”
“Uh-huh.” He cups my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “And when I get back, I want to walk in this house and smell dinner and see you not stress-sweating.”
I gasp. “I am not stress-sweating.”
“You’re stress-sweating.” He kisses me anyway. “Lock the door after me. Call me if you need anything.”
“Drive safe. Don’t forget the—”
“—luggage, Maddie, your mom’s cookies, my dad’s mystery tool bag. Yes, I know.” He’s grinning now, backing toward the stairs. “Love you.”
The words still hit like fireworks every time he says them to me. “Love you.”
He pauses at the bottom step, eyes flicking over me once more like he’s memorizing it—me in our house, lights on, Christmas dinner on the stove. Then he’s gone, boots thumping down the front steps, truck engine rumbling to life in the driveway below.
I stand there for one more second, watching the sun sink over the same ridge where I first knew he was the one. Now, I’m living my dream.
The second his truck disappears down the long drive, I let out a breath that’s half lovesick sigh, half panic attack. “Okay. Ham, check. Rolls, check. Garland, well, crooked, but check.”
I turn back toward the kitchen and that’s when my stomach twists. Not theoh no, the ham is burningkind of twist. A low, queasy roll that makes me pause mid-step.
“Great,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my middle. “Now I’m stress-ulcering.”
I brush it off. I’ve got too much to do to spiral over a random stomach flutter. But by the time I’m basting the ham, the smell hits me and my gag reflex lunges like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
“Oh no,” I whisper, slapping a hand over my mouth.
I shove the roasting pan back in the oven and gulp air over the sink until the wave passes. Maybe I just haven’t eaten enough. Maybe I’m dehydrated.Maybe I’m—Oh. Oh God.
My brain starts running the world’s most terrifying math problem.When was my last period?
I drop the dish towel and pull out my phone, flipping through my calendar app like a detective solving a murder. Work trip… Maddie’s birthday dinner… that weekend in Estes Park when he couldn’t keep his hands off me and the cabin fireplace practically burned down from friction?—
Shit.
That was five weeks ago. I freeze. Do the math again, slower this time, like maybe the numbers will magically change. They don’t.
Five weeks. Five. Which means I’m…
“Nope.” I shake my head, pacing the kitchen. “Nope, nope, absolutely not. This is a coincidence.”
Except now that I’m thinking about it, every weird thing from the last few days flashes in neon. The sudden craving for orange juice. Crying over a Folgers commercial. Falling asleep sitting up while watchingElf.
I grab my keys. There’s a Walgreens ten minutes down the road, and if I leave now, I can get there and back before Cole’s home with the Christmas caravan. But then I remember the ham. The rolls. And I can’t leave.
I stare at myself in the reflection of the microwave door. My hair is falling out of its bun, there’s flour on my sweater, and my face is plastered with a wide-eyed look of someone about to make a life-altering discovery between wrapping paper and mashed potatoes. And then I remember that I might actually have a test.
There’s only one way to find out.
Upstairs, in the en suite bathroom that overlooks the snowy ridge, I dig through the cabinet. Because of course I bought a box of tests months ago when Maddie swore she was late and made me pee on one “in solidarity.”
I pull one out and stare at it like it’s about to explode.
“Okay, Hailey. Breathe.”
After several minutes of trying to make myself pee, I finally do. I set the stick on the counter and start pacing.
Sixty seconds in, I tell myself not to look. Ninety seconds in, I peek anyway. Two pink lines. I blink. Shake it. Like maybe it’s a snow globe and the lines will settle into something else.
