I grabbed my car keys and bolted downstairs.
Maddison’s driveway was the first stop. Empty. Garage closed. Porch light off.
I tried the little coffee shop she loved, the soccer fields behind the middle school, the creek that ran past the old mill. No sign, just summer heat and the distant throb of cicadas.
An hour slipped by. Then two. My phone battery blinked low. Panic gnawed at the edges of every thought.
One left turn later, I was coasting down Oakridge Drive when a flash of silver stopped my heart. Her mom’s SUV—Iknew it from the bumper sticker with the name of Maddison’s school stuck crookedly above the trailer hitch—parked in front of a low brick building I’d never noticed before.
Purple letters on the glass door read PLANNED PARENTHOOD.
I pulled into the grocery lot across the street, killed the engine, and stared through the windshield. Adrenaline drummed so loud, I almost couldn’t hear the traffic.
Pregnant? Why didn’t she tell me? Did something go wrong?
Minutes crawled. My knuckles stayed white on the steering wheel.
The clinic door finally opened. Mrs. Morgan stepped out first, guiding Maddison by the shoulders like she might break. Maddison’s eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy. She pressed a fist against her mouth to smother a sob.
My chest caved. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only watch her climb into the passenger seat and disappear behind tinted glass.
When the SUV pulled away, I fumbled for my phone and dialed Bishop.
He answered on the second ring, huffing like he’d sprinted for it. “Yo, Reign. What’s up?”
“She was at Planned Parenthood,” I blurted. “With her mom. She was crying, Bishop, really crying.”
Silence crackled down the line, then his low, steady voice. “Okay. Breathe. You talk to her yet?”
“Not yet.” My throat burned. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Then you wait,” he said. “Give her space until she’s ready.”
Space felt impossible. But Bishop’s words were the only rope keeping me from free-fall, so I clung to them and drove home in a fog.
The night dragged its feet. Rain rattled the windows; lightning turned my room the color of old photographs. I paced while Bishop lounged on my bed, tossing a foam football in the air.
“She’ll call,” he kept saying, like a promise he could deliver. “Whatever it is, you’ll handle it together.”
I nodded, but hope felt paper-thin.
Finally, my phone buzzed.
Maddison.
I stabbed the answer icon. “Maddi?”
Only static and a shaky inhale.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “Talk to me.”
When she spoke, her voice was small, shredded around the edges. “I thought I was pregnant.”
Every molecule inside me froze. “Are you?”
“I’m not.” A breath that sounded like a laugh strangled halfway out. “False positive. They did the blood test. I’m… I’m not.”
Relief hit so hard my knees threatened to give, but she kept going before it could settle.
