But—
She woke the next morning with a heaviness in her gut and willed her period to show, as if her body could be argued with. It was 6 a.m. and Jameson, for once, was asleep beside her. A rare sight. The drugs often stole nights from him.
Nausea rose at the thought of the drugs. Then rose higher at the thought of a pregnancy.
What a mess.
She clapped a hand over her mouth and bolted. She made it to the bathroom just in time. When it was over, she cried quietly, small childlike sounds against the tile.
She didn’t hear the door, but she felt him. Jameson flushed the toilet, sat on the floor, and pulled her into him.
“Did you catch the flu that’s going around?” he said softly.
Daisy prayed to God that was all she’d caught.
“Maybe,” she whispered.
He wet a washcloth and laid it on her forehead. The quiet stretched, and Daisy bubbled out a short laugh.
“Remember when Sean punched you after he found out about us?”
Jameson huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Defending your honor.” He tipped his head. “Why?”
“The washcloth. I did the same for you. I cleaned you up.” She managed a smile. “It just… reminded me.”
He kissed her shoulder and stayed there, breathing her in. He was so sweet in that moment that she almost told him.
“Jameson…”
“Daisy…”
They said each other’s names at the same time.
“You first,” she murmured.
He pressed his lips together, thinking. Hope sparked. Maybe he’d say it, maybe he’d confess and make the next step clearer, easier.
“I think you should rest tonight,” he said instead. “Don’t worry about the show. We’ve got one more here.”
The spark sank. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s probably best.”
She slept most of the day, waking only to be sick twice more.
Maybe it really was the flu.
Jameson suggested bringing a doctor up, but Daisy refused. She wasn’t ready to face what might be growing inside of her.
When he left for the show, she showered, pulled on a TKC tee and oversized sweatpants, and took the elevator down. The drugstore was next to the hotel. She walked the aisles, tossing chips, candy, orange juice into a basket like she was just anyone, not a girl with her life on the brink of disaster. She stopped at the aisle she would have given anything to avoid, grabbed three tests, and bolted to self-checkout.
It took an hour to work up the nerve to pee on the first stick. She downed the orange juice and took the other two. She paced the bathroom, counting the seconds in her head, waiting while the plastic decided her future.
She took a deep breath, trying to ward off the onslaught of nausea.
Her hands shook as she reached to turn them over. One by one, her fate was sealed with a simple symbol.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
She crammed the tests into her bag, swallowed a sob, and wrapped herself in Jameson’s sweatshirt. She cried until exhaustion put her under.
