Page 3 of XOXO, Yours

I'm trying not to let her see me panic.

My hands are folded so tightly in my lap that my knuckles have gone pale. I’d been picking at a hangnail on my thumb without noticing I was doing it until it started to sting. So now I’m trying to keep my fingers still.

“Maybe they just got backed up," Hope says for what has to be the tenth time. Her voice cracks a little on backed up.

"Maybe."

"Maybe she's fine."

"Maybe."

Hope stops pacing and narrows her eyes at me. Under the fluorescent lights, her face looks washed out, mascara smudged faintly at the corner of one eye from wiping away a tear. She probably thinks I didn't see her cry.

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The one where you answer in one-word sentences because you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out."

"Liar."

I sigh, and it comes out shakier than I mean it to.

"Fine. I'm freaking out."

Cora’s the sturdy one. The practical one. The one who reminds us to drink water and renew our car registrations and stop buying shoes we can't afford. The one who shows up to everything ten minutes early with a granola bar in her purse for whoever inevitably forgot to eat breakfast—which is usually me.

People like Cora don't just... pass out. Even with fourteen weeks of morning sickness and a diet that’s mostly saltines.

Not unless something is really wrong.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see spots. If it were possible, I would physically push the thoughts out of my head. It doesn't work. It never works.

A nurse pushes through the double doors carrying a clipboard. Her scrubs are a soft, faded blue and her rubbery, Croc-like shoes squeak against the tile.

I spring to my feet so fast the entire line of bolted-together chairs scrape against the floor. An old man in the corner of the room starts at the abrupt noise.

She smiles apologetically. I bet they teach that smile in nursing school. It needs to be gentle enough to soften bad news, but not so cheery it undercut the seriousness of the situation.

"Nothing yet,” she says.

Hope sits back down, deflating like a popped balloon.

I don't.

If I sit down, I'll stew in my own thoughts and pick more cuticles.

Instead, I stalk toward the vending machines. I wrap my arms tight over my ribs like I can hold myself together from the outside.

Experience has taught me that sugar can’t actually fix an impending emotional collapse, but it can numb me out for a good five minutes. Healthy choice? Nope, not even a little bit. But they call it emotional eating for a reason.

The machine eats my five-dollar bill with a mechanical shudder and a smug little beep. The coil makes a half turn, but then stops, holding my candy bar hostage.

Of course it does.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl.