And make a run for it.
I think I win the world championship for the 20-meter crutch dash while clutching a box labeledSlut Stuffand trying not to faceplant in front of a child.
My armpits are burning, one crutch keeps clicking like it’s judging me, and my heart is doing that thing where it skips just enough beats to make me think,“Cool, this is how I die.”Not in a car chase. Not from Bratva politics. But right here. On this marble staircase. Mid-limp. Clutching off-brand lingerie and a pee stick.
Romantic.
I throw myself—gracefully, desperately—into the upstairs bathroom and slam the door behind me. Lock it. Twice.
Breath comes in sharp little gasps. Not because I’m out of shape. (Okay, fine, maybe a little.)But because my entire body is trying to riot at once. Lungs, ovaries, frontal cortex—no one is calmin here.
I drop the box on the counter like it might explode.
Rip it open.
Under the top layer of hot-pink tissue paper and what looks like a lace thong designed by Satan’s interns, I find it:
A plain white box.
Pregnancy test.
Actually, two.
One digital. One analog. Because of course Elena covered both options.
Tucked between the test kits and the world’s most offensive thong is a folded napkin. It smells faintly like airport whiskey and poor decisions. Elena’s handwriting scrawls across it, sharp and unhinged:
“If it’s positive, I’m stealing you for a wine-and-regret road trip across state lines. If it’s negative, I’m still coming over to stage an exorcism. Either way—pee, text me and DON’T name it after a gemstone.Also, the thong is a metaphor. Burn it. Or wear it. I support you either way. Love, E (currently lurking in California and two iced coffees deep).”
I sit down hard on the edge of the bathtub. My fingers tighten around the test. My heart’s doing something weird in my chest—fluttering and slamming at the same time.
And then, just as I’m standing, reaching for the faucet to fill a cup, I realize my hands are shaking so bad I nearly spill it.
I sit again, harder this time, like the porcelain edge of the tub might anchor me to gravity. Or sanity. Or whatever’s left.
I uncap the test like it’s a grenade and try to remember how time works. Two minutes? Three? Long enough to re-evaluate every decision I’ve ever made but not long enough to build a new identity and flee the country.
I pee. I wait.
I stare at the counter like it just insulted my bloodline.
My brain short-circuits into a slideshow of horror:
—That one story about a woman who sneezed during labor, and the baby shot out like a torpedo.
—An article Elena once sent me titled“Your Organs Will Move to Make Room For It—Isn’t That Magical?”
—A terrifying memory of my high school health teacher passing out from showing us a birth video, which still haunts me more than most crime scenes.
I sit. I breathe. I don’t breathe. I check the clock. I almost check the test.
Then I chicken out and check the thong instead.
Still awful.
God, I can’t do this. I don’t know how to be a mother. I can barely be a functioning adult with a planner and a coffee addiction. What if it hates me? What if it looks like me but has his temper? Or looks like him but gets my anxiety and bursts into tears every time Spotify plays the wrong version of a song?
My hands won’t stop shaking.
