Good point.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, nodding even though she can’t see it. “But what if he freaks out?”
“Then he freaks out. If he’s even half the guy he’s seemed like these past couple weeks? He’ll want to be there for this moment. For you.”
She’s so right. He would want to be here.
I look down at the test in my hand again. It suddenly feels heavier. Like it’s trying to tell me Lucy’s right.
She keeps going, gentle now. “This doesn’t have to be a solo act. You’re literally married to the guy.”
Not really . . .
“You don’t have to take it now, right this second.”
I nod again, swallowing hard. “I know, but it will kill me to wait.”
She’s quiet for a second, then: “Do you want me to stay on the line until he’s out of the shower?”
“No, I’ll be okay. Thank you, Lucy.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
There’s silence, and I imagine her nibbling her bottom lip, something she does when she has more to say. “You’ve been in Arizona for a week, and I haven’t seen you once. It feels like an eternity.”
It actually doesn’t. It’s going by in a blur.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t go back to Washington tomorrow—we can hang out the way we had planned to.”
She agrees. “I know—but I’ve been gone too long already, and the girls at the yoga studio can’t hold down the fort another day. A huge group of women are arriving for a wellness retreat, and Ihaveto be there.”
Lucy has a staff of three other yoga instructors, but of course, no one does it better than the owner. I smile faintly, thumb brushing along the seam of the pharmacy bag. “I know you have actual responsibilities and bendy, flexible people count on you.”
I am neither of those things.
Lucy sighs dramatically. “Ugh, don’t remind me. You’d think a group of grown, professional women could make their own celery juice in the morning, but apparently that’s too much to ask.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “I miss you.”
“I missyou. I should stay. I really like it here, even though it’s hot as hell.”
“Nah, I’m managing just fine in this penthouse apartment.”
We sit in silence for another beat, the kind of quiet only best friends can share without it feeling awkward. The kind that makes everything feel a little less terrifying.
Lucy finally says, soft again, “Whatever it says when you take it—whatever happens—call me or text me; I have my phone. I mean it.”
“I will.”
We end the call, and I tuck my phone in my lap. The sound of running water continues to be heard down the hall.
One breath.
Two.
Then I do the thing I called my best friend about: open my robe, pull down my underwear, and sit down on the toilet seat. Rip open the box for the pregnancy test, tear open the wrapper.
