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I open my mouth to argue again, but nothing comes out. For the first time, the possibility lands hard enough that I cannot immediately push it away.

I shake my head. “No.”

Chloe’s voice softens. “Maybe it is no.”

“It is.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Then we take a test, and you get to prove me wrong.”

I look at her.

She lifts one shoulder.

“Either way, we’re not guessing anymore.”

I close my eyes for a second, already hating this conversation. When I open them again, Chloe is still standing there.

“We’re getting a test,” she says.

***

The next morning, Chloe returns from the pharmacy carrying a paper bag with two pregnancy tests, two bagels and the determined expression of someone who has already decided I’m not getting out of this.

An hour later, both tests are sitting on the bathroom counter while I pace the short stretch of hallway outside the door. Chloe leans against the wall with her phone in her hand, watching the timer while I try not to look at it.

“Maybe we should give them fifteen minutes,” I say.

Chloe looks up.

“The instructions don’t say fifteen minutes.”

“Well I’d like them to marinate,” I say.

“They’re pregnancy tests, Blaire, not lasagna.”

I stop pacing long enough to glare at her. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Chloe says.

“We’re reading them when the timer goes off.”

I start pacing again, rubbing my palms against the sides of my sweatpants even though they aren’t actually damp. Chloe doesn’t say anything else, which I appreciate because every thought in my head is already loud enough.

Her phone finally chimes, and I stop moving so abruptly that Chloe straightens away from the wall.

“Ready?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

She waits without pushing me.

I draw in a slow breath and point toward the bathroom.

“Can you look?”

“You sure?” Chloe asks.