How on earth did Imiss my period?
It’s going to be negative.Maybe the stress of the job made my period late. Stress does that, right?
The timer on my screen went off at least two minutes ago, but I’m not ready.
I’m not ready because my period has always been clockwork.
Even from a very young age, Miss Freya Johnson has been highly regular. Maybe that was a clue that I’m also ridiculously fertile.
And I bet a man that looks like Anton is fertile, too. His sperm probably swam right up and out of that condom. Maybe it was a little broken and we didn’t notice?
Shit. Shit. Shit…
Downstairs, the morning news hums low from the kitchen television. I picture my mom, suit jacket already on, heels tapping against the polished floor, running through her opening statements in her head. Order, logic, control. She lives her whole life like a case file: every variable accounted for, every outcome calculated.
And me? I’m standing in her guest bathroom, heartbeat punching behind my ribs, waiting to see if I just detonated the rest of my life.
I’m supposed to be a civil servant now. I worked my butt off for this.
A knock on the door jolts me. I’m so far away in my spiral, I didn’t even hear Mom’s heels on the stairs.
“Frey, are you nearly done? I have a new tube of lipstick in there. I’ve got to be in court.”
My voice comes out thin. “Just a minute.”
There’s a pause, then the soft retreat of her heels down the hall toward her bedroom. I exhale, but it doesn’t help. The air feels wrong in my chest.
Court. Work. Normal life continues while I’m frozen here.
I have to get on with it. I flip the test over, and my throat closes.
Two lines.
For a second everything stops. Even the whooshing pulse in my ears goes silent. Then the room rushes back in. The hum of the vent, the faint lavender of my mother’s diffuser, the weight of even the light presses on my shoulders.
I’m pregnant with Anton’s baby.Ourbaby. We made a baby. For an instant, the image of a gorgeous child with his eyes and my hair hits me, and my heart flutters.
No.
Yes, the baby would be beautiful. Yes, he would be an amazing dad. I can just see how he’d do anything for his child. Anton is such a good man…
But no. I just started my career. I finally made myself proud doing something that was hard, that I didn’t think I could do, and I did it.
I’m a cop now.
Not a mom.
An inner groan makes my stomach roll.
My mom knocks again, and I nearly pee my pants.
“Freya? Lipstick? I really need to go. Just put it through a crack if you aren’t finished.”
I open the drawer where my mom’s makeup is meticulously ordered, and I take out her classic red lipstick, the one she’s been wearing for years. It’s part of her uniform, part of her well-planned world. I pop the pregnancy stick in the acrylic holder in its stead. I close the drawer and open the door. My mom’s standing there in a silk blouse andblazer, perfectly put together as always, fiddling with her earring back.
I’ve always wanted to be like her, but only two feet behind me is all the proof in the world that I’m not.
“Here you go,” I say, handing over the lipstick.
