I kept my hood up. My hands shook.
My heart hammered so loudly it blurred into the hum of the engine.
Inside the drug store, everything felt too bright. Too normal.
I grabbed the test quickly, paid without looking the clerk in the eye, and practically ran to the single-stall bathroom in the back.
Darla squeezed my hand before I slipped inside. “Text me if you need anything. I’ll be right here, okay?”
“Okay.”
The lock clicked behind me, and the silence crashed over me like a wave.
I opened the test. My hands were unsteady, awkward. I followed the instructions. Sat on the toilet lid once it was done.
Stared at the floor tiles as though they were going to offer emotional support.
Every fear I’d ever had clawed its way to the surface.
You’re too young for this. You can’t be a mother. Your mom will freak out.
And then, even worse. The guys. What if they thought I’d trapped them somehow? What if they don’t want this? What if they wanted it and I didn’t?
Who’s the father? How do you even figure that out?
My throat tightened painfully.
The little plastic stick sat face-down on the edge of the sink, taunting me.
I tried to breathe.
Tried to count.
The few minutes felt like hours.
I kept telling myself I’d look. I’d be brave. I’d handle whatever came next.
But my hands wouldn’t move.
It wasn’t until the fifth buzz of my phone—Darla checking on me—that I finally forced myself to stand. I turned the test over.
My heart dropped, then leapt, then twisted itself into something unrecognizable.
Two lines. Two undeniable pink lines.
Pregnant.
I pressed both palms to the counter, gasping. Tears blurred my vision. Not sadness, at least not yet—just shock. Pure, bone-deep shock.
“Oh god,” I whispered. “A baby.”Mybaby.
I stayed in the bathroom too long. Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten. The world felt muffled, heavy, unreal. I expected Darla to knock, to tease me, to scold me, to ask a million inappropriate questions.
But she didn’t.
A strange pit opened in my stomach.
“Darla?” I called as I cracked the door open.
