I’ve doled out congratulatory hugs so many times, usually because the test ended up negative. I just pray that this will be one of those times, but I’m worried my good luck has run out.
I take a breath and follow the steps, methodically. I set the test on the edge of the sink and stare at the wall while the seconds stretch out cruelly. I don’t pace or try to make time move faster. I just stand there, arms crossed tightly over my chest, staring at a small crack in the tile like it holds the answers to the universe. If I could, I’d stay in this moment forever, putting off the inevitable.
When I finally force myself look down, my heart drops straight into my stomach. It’s positive. There’s no denying it. It’s not justa faint line or an ambiguous reading. It, very clearly, tells me I’m pregnant.
The room tilts. For a moment, I don’t breathe. I just stare at the test, my brain refusing to accept what my eyes are clearly seeing. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. This is too much. It’s absolutely absurd.
A month ago, I was celebrating my engagement to a man I thought I loved. Now, I’m on the run with a notorious mob boss I barely know, and I’m pregnant with his baby.
A laugh bubbles up out of nowhere, sharp and almost hysterical. I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it, but it escapes anyway, echoing off the tile walls. It sounds wrong in this space, hollow and echoed.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
My legs give out, and I sit down hard on the edge of the tub, gripping the porcelain until my knuckles ache. My chest feels tight, like there’s a band wrapped around it, pulling tighter and tighter with every shallow breath.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I just need to accept the reality now. I can always panic later.
I open my eyes again and reach for the test, hands trembling. I don’t want it here. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want it existing in the same space as me for one second longer.
I pry it apart with shaking fingers, snapping the plastic casing open. The test strip inside looks flimsy and unassuming, like it couldn’t possibly be responsible for the way my entire life has just shifted on its axis.
I drop it into the toilet and flush immediately, watching it disappear like I can erase the moment by sheer force of will. The plastic casing follows, then the box, then the receipt. I tear them into small pieces before flushing again, just to be sure. Just to feel like I’m doing something.
When the toilet stops running, the bathroom is far too quiet.
I stand up abruptly and splash cold water on my face, gasping as it hits my skin. I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. I look the same. I lean closer to the mirror until I can see every freckle and fine line on my face.
“This is fine,” I tell myself quietly.
My voice is steadier than I feel.
I dry my face with a towel and take another deep breath, forcing my racing thoughts into some kind of order. Panic isn’t useful. Tears won’t fix anything. I’ve always been better when there’s a problem to solve.
And this is a problem. A huge one.
I pace the length of the bathroom, barefoot on the cool tile, trying to think. The nausea has faded into the background now, replaced by a buzzing awareness under my skin. Fear, yes, but also something else. Something strange and unfamiliar.
Protectiveness. The thought hits me so hard I have to stop moving.
No. Don’t do that. Don’t romanticize this.
This is not a miracle. This is not some cosmic sign. This is biology and timing and a series of terrible decisions layered on top of each other.
I sit back down on the tub and wrap my arms around my knees, staring at the closed toilet lid. I can’t tell Andrei about this. The thought comes fully formed, immediate and absolute. I can’t tell him. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I know what would happen if I did. I’ve watched him long enough to understand how his mind works. He would take control. He would decide what was best. I would become a liability and my baby would become a bargaining chip.
This is my problem. I’ll handle it alone, just like I’ve handled every other problem in my life. The decision settles over me with surprising clarity. I don’t know exactly how yet. I don’t know what steps come next.
Still, I will not let this become another thing that happens to me without my consent.
I stand up again, steadier now, and wash my hands thoroughly, like I’m scrubbing the moment itself away. When I leave the bathroom, I move carefully, deliberately, like I’m afraid any sudden motion might shatter this fragile sense of control.
The safehouse is quiet. Andrei is out, which is a relief. I don’t think I could look at him right now without something giving me away. My body feels different suddenly. Heavier. Charged.
I sink down onto the couch with a blanket and stare at the far wall, letting my thoughts wander despite my best efforts to corral them.
“Stop,” I mutter out loud to myself.
