Luke doesn't hesitate. He starts grabbing boxes, reading the backs with the same focus he probably uses to review ranch financial reports.
“This one says results in two minutes. This one has a digital readout so there's no guessing about lines.” He looks at me. “Which one do you want?”
“I don't know,” I say, overwhelmed.
“Then we'll get them all.”
He's not joking. He grabs three different brands, then adds little plastic cups like the ones at the doctor's office, and a large bottle of blue Gatorade.
“Luke, sweetie, I don’t think three different ones is necessary.”
“I want to be sure.” His jaw is set with determination. “One way or the other, we're gonna know for certain.”
At the register, the cashier, a grizzled woman who looks like she's seen everything twice, raises an eyebrow as she scans the items. The beep of each pregnancy test feels deafening.
Luke just grins at her, then winks at me, completely unbothered.
“Big day,” he says cheerfully.
The old woman shakes her head, but I catch the corners of her mouth twitching up.
“Good luck, kids,” she mutters as she hands over the bag.
In the truck, I clutch the plastic bag on my lap, the weight of it somehow both insignificant andenormous. Luke drives with one hand, the other resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing those familiar circles.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Ask me in ten minutes.”
His hand squeezes my leg. “Whatever those tests say, we're okay. We’re good. We’re together no matter what.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
When we get to his place, I take a deep, shuddering breath. This is where everything changes. This is the before.
I take the bag from him. “So, um. I guess I'm just gonna go pee on some sticks.”
“Want company?” He smiles teasingly, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
“No thank you,” I say firmly, grateful for the attempt at humor. “I get performance anxiety.”
He kisses my forehead, lingering there for a moment. I can feel the tension in him too, despite his easy demeanor. “Hurry back.”
In the bathroom, I set the bag on the counter and stare at it.
Just the most important pee of my life. No big deal.
I twist open the Gatorade and force myself to drink, even though my stomach is in knots. Then I take a deep breath and get to work.
My hands are shaking so badly by the time I take the tests out of their packages that I nearly drop one.
Finally, I manage to dip all three tests into the little cup I used.
I lay them carefully on the counter, side by side like little soldiers, then throw away the trash and wash my hands. The water runs cold, then warm, and I watch it swirl down the drain, wondering how everything can feel so surreal and so viscerally real at the same time.
The instructions said to wait three minutes, but I can already see something happening on the first test. My heart climbs into my throat.
A tap at the door makes me jump.
