Willow – Age 18
Three Months Later
The boxes stare at me, waiting for me to make a choice, but I'm frozen.
Eight weeks late.
What if I'm pregnant?
Dad will kill Wyatt and be so disappointed in me.
At least I'm eighteen and graduated last week.
Doesn't matter. Dad will still kill Wyatt.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I glance behind me to make sure I'm alone, then toss a box in the basket. I scurry down the aisle, turn the corner, and run into Chelsea Waverly.
"Ouch!" she blurts, her gaze going straight to the basket that I rammed right into her stomach.
"Crap, I'm sorry," I offer, moving the basket to the side to hide the test.
There's no point. Her face lights up in surprise, then twists into the same excitement she always gets whenever she finds out new gossip.
It's just my luck that after not seeing her for over a year, I'd have to run into her today.
She chirps, "Well, well, well! Who's the guy?"
"It's not for me," I lie, my face heating.
"Sure it isn't," she retorts.
"It isn't," I insist.
She puts her hand on her hip. "Then who's it for?"
"None of your business."
She grabs the test out of the basket and smirks. "This is a good one. Quick and easy. You'll know immediately if you're knocked up."
Mortified, I snatch it back and brush past her, repeating, "It's not for me." I hightail it to the counter, but she follows me.
"Then tell me who it's for," she pushes.
I spin around and point at her. "You're being nosy and rude."
She shrugs and leans closer, as if we're besties. "I thought you were a Goody Two-shoes, Willow Cartwright."
My heart pounds so hard, it hurts my rib cage. The last thing I need is for her to spread rumors all over town.
I glare at her. "Shut your mouth, Chelsea. You don't know what you're talking about, and I'm not divulging my friend's name to you."
She lowers her voice. "You can tell me. I won't say anything to anyone. Promise."
"Sure you won't," I spout, then brush past her to the self-checkout. I quickly scan the box and put it in the bag, then reach inside my purse for my wallet.
Chelsea steps next to me, asking, "Is it for one of your sisters?"
Anger fills me. I shove my card into the machine, grab the bag, and hiss, "Don't you dare talk about my sisters!"
