Page 67 of Wicked Ruin

I blink at the screen. Date of my last period? What does that have to do with anything?

April 29th

Dr. R

All right. This is not typically the way I like to diagnose anyone, but we could put a great many of your fears to rest with a very simple test. I want you to do something for me before we go any further. I want you to get a test from a pharmacy. A pregnancy test. Can you do that today?

I stare at the screen. I’ve been blinded. I’ve been so fucking blinded by fears of a relapse that I didn’t even see the obvious signs in front of my own face.

Pregnant?

I swallow hard. The memory of Declan surfaces immediately.

I’m on birth control though?

Dr. R

I know. Humor me.

I put my phone down and sit in the waiting room. Just sit until I shiver with cold and my fingers go numb.

I finally reply.

Yes. I will

Eventually, I look up the local pharmacies. They're all closed.

But I know this hospital like the back of my hand. I know exactly where the maternity unit is. I know which nurses work the night shift and which ones won't ask questions if a woman they recognize walks in looking like she needs something from the supply cupboard.

Now I'm the one sitting on a toilet in a hospital bathroom, the test balanced on the edge of the sink, staring at it like it might bite me.

The good news: I’m not flaring up. Like Dr. Rosenberg says, I’m fine.

The bad news: I’m pregnant with Declan McCarthy’s baby.

Chapter Fifteen

BRIDGET

When I was in school, my teacher had me read Dante's Inferno—the circles of hell as a metaphor for our lives. At the time, it didn't make sense to me. I could sort of fathom that there were levels of damnation, gradations of sin, and certain actions that were worse than others. I understood that some people did terrible things and deserved more serious punishment, yes, but the idea of distinct layers was something my adolescent brain couldn't quite grasp.

Until now. Because pacing outside Declan's room, waiting for him to wake up, waiting to find out whether he's suffered brain damage or anything else they haven't told me yet, is absolutely a layer of Dante's hell I’ve never experienced before.

“Are you next of kin?” A doctor in a white coat approaches, clipboard in hand.

God. How many more times do I have to talk to doctors in white coats? Why do they wear white anyway? And don’t they only say next of kin when someone’s dead?

I shake my head. “No. I'm his friend.”

When I hear voices behind me, I turn to see Declan's parents coming down the hall. I’m torn between the urge to run to them and the urge to hide. His mother reaches for me first.

Aileen McCarthy is one of the nicest, strongest women I have ever known, a woman I have often wished was my own mother. She pulls me into a hug before she's even said a word. Her gray hair is in a messy bun, and she’s wearing matching black lounge clothes, as if she were pulled from the quiet of her home to get this news.

“What happened?” she says as her husband comes up behind her. Even now, Cormac McCarthy is a terrifying man. Absolutely enormous, with a thick beard shot through with gray and deep laugh lines around his eyes. Declan has his eyes.

“Bridget,” he says warmly, hugging me. “Good to see you here, lass. You’re a good friend.” He leans down and kisses both my cheeks.

Their son’s in a hospital bed, and they don't question why I'm here. They're just glad someone they know is. My heart aches.