No blurry bits. No faint line that needs squinting at from six angles. Just a solid, unapologetic result.
Right then.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and place the test on the sink, facing me, like we’re about to have a conversation. My brain tries to leap straight into panic and I shut it down immediately.
Nope. Not yet.
First, the list.
Lists stop me from spiralling. Lists take feelings and put them in orderly queues where they can wait their bloody turn.
I open the Notes app on my phone.
Things to do.
Book GP appointment
Work out dates
Finances
Housing
Tell Geoff
Breathe
I pause, then add another.
Vitamins
There. Already better.
Only once the list exists do I let the thought settle.
I’m pregnant.
Actually pregnant. A bit over three months pregnant. Early January pregnant.
That part lands with a dull thump somewhere behind my ribs.
Miranda's birthday party at Jasper’s. Everyone drunk enough to be sentimental but not enough to be a liability. Prosecco, then whisky, because, evidently, I was in a phase where bad decisions came in glass tumblers.
People had drifted off to bed in stages. Miranda and Jasper to their room in the main house. Theo and Ivy tucked into Miranda’s bedroom in the annexe. I was relegated to sleep in SJ’s bedroom in the annexe as well. Geoff was supposed to stay in Jasper’s spare room.
Only he didn’t.
Instead, Geoff and I stayed up too late in the kitchen, nursing whisky and not talking about the obvious things. My break-up was still raw then. Two months out, from a fiancé who’d turned out to be very good at lying and very bad at remorse. I was tired of being brave. Geoff wastired of… something. We didn’t define it. We just drank and existed in the same quiet space.
One thing led to another. As it so often does when you mix unresolved grief with familiarity and alcohol.
I don’t remember much of the sex itself. I remember warmth. Laughter that tipped into something a bit hysterical. Waking up tangled in a bed clearly too small for my five-foot three body and Geoff’s six-foot-four frame. I nearly fell out of it, and with that jolt came the kind of clear-headedness that only follows a night of mutual regret management.
We looked at each other, assessed the situation like two competent adults, and agreed it was a one-time thing.
No drama. No meaning. No consequences.
We even laughed about it. Promised not to make it weird. Promised not to worry.
