Blakely grins. “He’s gonna faint.”
Madison smiles. “He’s going to cry.”
I roll my eyes. “Logan doesn’t cry.”
All three women stare at me like I’m delusional.
I blink, then laugh softly, warmth spreading through my chest.
Because maybe he will.
And maybe that would be the sweetest thing.
The drive home is quiet in the way that makes my thoughts louder.
Chicago at night is all wet pavement and glowing streetlights, the city reflecting itself back like it can’t stop looking. My windshield wipers swipe across a fine mist, and my hands stay locked at ten and two, even though I’m not nervous about the road.
I’m nervous about everything else.
Four days late.
Maybe five now, depending on how you count.
I park outside the little corner store a few blocks from our apartment and sit there for a second with the engine running, breathing in through my nose like I can inhale a decision.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve played in arenas with thousands of people screaming my name. I’ve taken final shots with my heart trying to punch through my ribcage.
But walking into a store for a pregnancy test makes my stomach flip like I’m breaking a rule.
I force myself out of the car.
Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright. The aisles are too normal. A dad is buying cereal. A couple is arguing softly over pasta sauce. The world keeps moving like my body hasn’t quietly opened a door I wasn’t sure I wanted open yet.
I find the aisle.
I stand there longer than I mean to, staring at the boxes lined up like they’re all offering different versions of my life.
We weren’t preventing.
We weren’t trying-trying either.
We’ve been…letting life happen. Which is a terrifying way to phrase something that could end with a human.
I grab one that looks straightforward, then pivot and head for the freezer section like a woman on a mission, because if I’m doing this, I’m doing it with ice cream.
I pick vanilla bean without thinking. Pops always kept vanilla in the freezer. “Goes with everything,” he used to say, which was true.
My chest squeezes at the thought, but it doesn’t crush me the way it used to. It’s just there—an ache that lives alongside everything else now.
I pay. I leave. I sit in my car again and stare at the bag on the passenger seat like it might start talking.
Then I walk inside and set it on the counter like it’s just groceries.
I put the ice cream away first, because that’s manageable. That’s normal. That’s something I can do without my hands shaking.
The test goes into the bathroom drawer under the sink.
Hidden.
