Ben set the phone back in the console, eyes on the road. For a long moment the only sound was the Camaro’s idle and the wind whistling through the oaks.
“She’s never getting out,” he said quietly. Almost like he was testing the words, making sure they were real.
“No,” I whispered. “She’s not.”
He reached over, found my hand, laced our fingers tight. The crimson fenders caught the late sun as we turned toward home, and for the first time in a long time, the weight on my chest felt a little lighter.
We rode in silence for a few miles, the Camaro’s rumble filling the space where words should have been. Ben kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee, his touch steady and grounding, like he knew I was unraveling inside even if I hadn’t said it out loud yet.
Then it happened.
A weird little nauseous slip low in my stomach, the kind that usually came right before my period hit. That familiar crampyflutter, like my body was gearing up for the inevitable. I shifted in the seat, waiting for the tell-tale ache in my lower back or the heaviness that always followed.
Nothing else came.
I frowned, reached for my phone in the cup holder, and opened the cycle tracking app I’d been using since college. The little calendar popped up, color-coded and reliable. I scrolled back.
Period Due: December 27.
I stared at the empty red circle that should have been filled in by now. Christmas had come and gone. New Year’s. We were five days into January, and… nothing. No spotting, no cramps beyond that one weird flip, no flow.
My heart started pounding harder than the Camaro’s engine.
I was late.
Really late.
“Ben,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Pull into the next pharmacy.”
He glanced over immediately, blue eyes sharpening.
“You okay? You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.” I swallowed, trying to sound casual even though my pulse was racing. “Just need to grab something real quick.”
He didn’t question it again, just flicked the blinker and turned into the lot of a small strip-mall pharmacy in Loxley, the kind with flickering neon OPEN signs and a single row of crooked parking spaces. He killed the engine and was out of the carbefore I’d even unbuckled, circling around to open my door like he always did when he sensed something was off.
Inside, the place smelled like floor cleaner and cough drops. I headed straight for the family-planning aisle near the back, Ben a silent shadow at my side. The shelves were packed with rows and rows of boxes in every color, promising early detection, digital readouts, lines or plus signs or actual words.
I stopped in front of them and just… froze.
There were too many. Some said ‘6 days sooner’, some ‘99% accurate from the day of your missed period’, some had two tests, some had five. One even claimed to estimate how many weeks. My brain short-circuited.
Ben stepped up behind me, chest brushing my back, hands settling lightly on my hips.
“What are we looking at, angel?”
I exhaled shakily and tilted my head toward the overwhelming wall of pink and blue boxes.
“Which one do we get?”
The air around us went perfectly still.
His fingers tightened on my hips, just enough that I felt it through my jeans. I could practically hear his heartbeat pick up against my spine.
“You’re late?” he asked, voice low, rough, like he was afraid to say it too loud and jinx it.
“Nine days.”
