Butterflies have been swarming my insides all morning in anticipation of finally getting to marry the man of my dreams in the presence of everyone we know and love.
Technically, we’re already married. Two months ago, Killian and I drove two towns over to the courthouse, where we made our marriage official in the presence of court issued witnesses. We decided not to tell our family and friends that we had gotten married in private.
They wouldn’t understand.
Especially when we’ve been planning our wedding since the moment he proposed to me.
I’ve never been the type of person that enjoys being in the spotlight. I break out in a cold sweat and lose all train of thought the moment I feel the attention of others focused on me. And when I shared that with Killian, he suggested we get married in an intimate setting where we can share our vows with each other without the heat of a hundred eyes on us.
I jumped at the offer.
I would have married him the day he proposed if I had known it was a possibility.
Today is entirely for our families. It’s for them to celebrate us. For us to celebrate our love, with them. As far as they’re aware, we’re officially becoming husband and wife today, and we plan to keep it that way.
Our little secret.
What Killian doesn’t know is; I’m keeping a little secret of my own.
Or rather, a very big secret.
The kind of secret that comes in the form of two pink lines.
I’ve been sitting on the positive pregnancy test for over a week now and it has taken strength I didn’t know I possessed to keep it to myself.
The moment those lines appeared in front of me, I knew today would be the perfect day to tell him.
Today, we begin the rest of our lives together.
Once the makeup artist is done with me, I grab my overnight bag and carry it into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I deposit the bag on the counter and rifle through it, searching for the long white gift box I hid in there before I left the house this morning.
I make quick work of placing the pregnancy test in the box and meticulously tie a ribbon around it before setting it aside.
I find my reflection in the mirror and smile. My face is flawlessly made up. My skin glowy with the perfect amount of pink in my cheeks. My eyeshadow is smoky but not toodark. And my lips are lined with a nude-brown topped off with a shimmery gloss that I know Killian will go wild over.
Much like it has been for the last week, my bladder screams at me, and I quickly pull my silk bridal pyjama shorts down and relieve myself before I climb into my wedding dress and it becomes impossible for me to pee alone.
I reach for the toilet paper but freeze when a flash of red catches my eye.
Every muscle in my body tenses and panic squeezes my lungs as I pull back my shorts and stare down at the blood covering them.
“No, no, no, no,” I whisper, clawing desperately at the toilet paper. Tears burn my eyes as I swipe the tissue between my legs and lift it in front of me.
Red.
I repeat the motion.
Red. Red, red, red, red.
My vision blurs. Tears fall onto my cheeks, destroying my makeup but I don’t give it a second thought as I continue to swipe at myself while praying for a different outcome.
With trembling hands, I reach for the bag on the counter and pull it to the floor between my feet. I root through it until I find some clean underwear and a sanitary towel.
Violent shivers of anxiety wrack my body as I try to clean myself up and pull the underwear on.
“Please, God,” I whisper shakily as I stand and peer into the toilet.
Big mistake.
