Page 32 of Catcher

My eyes dart to my phone on the table where I dropped it earlier. I grab it with shaking fingers and unlock the screen. “Okay,” I say to myself. “Let’s check to be sure.” I pull up my calendar. The screen blurs as my eyes skim the weeks, and the days bleed together. Tutoring sessions, lesson planning notes, and dinner with my parents. Everything except the one thing I’m looking for. I scroll back and back. My stomach twists tighter with every swipe. When was the last time I had my period? The answer doesn’t come immediately. That alone sends a fresh surge of panic. I know my body. I’ve always known my body. I live by routines and predictability, and not being able to place it feels wrong.

I close my eyes and try to think. Images spiral through my mind of grading papers late at night and exhaustion as I fall into bed. The weeks blur. My determination has kept me busy. I remember cramps at school, and a pain reliever popped during lunch. How long ago was that? “Dammit, Ruby. Think.” My heartbeat stumbles. Realization creeps in, slowly and terrifyingly. “It couldn’t have been that long,” I murmur, my voice lacking conviction.

I scroll back further.

There it is.

The date stares, accusing.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. My hand flies to my mouth. My heart kicks into overdrive, and panic roars in my ears. Weeks ago—too many weeks. Long enough that this might make sense. I shake my head as if to knock the thought loose. “This can’t be.” I lean forward, gripping the table until my knuckles turn white. Suddenly, I feel a headache coming on as my mind betrays me, dragging me back to Catcher, back to that morning, the humiliation and hurt I’ve tried to bury under work and exhaustion.

A new wave of nausea rolls through, sharper now, fueled by fear. “Oh God,” I whisper again, tears burning behind my eyes. “Please, no.” I begin to pace again, faster this time, running a hand through my hair, yanking the clip free and tossing it across the room with a frustrated grunt while my thoughts spiral. What if I am pregnant? What would I do? How would I tell Catcher? Would he deny that the baby is his? Could I handle being a single mom? What would my parents think? What would our friends think?

I stop in the kitchen, arms wrapped around myself, suddenly cold while my body shakes. I can’t do this. I can’t be pregnant by a man who doesn’t remember being with me. If I sit with it, if I let it take root, it becomes real, and I’m not ready for that.

“This is ridiculous,” I say. “You’re jumping to conclusions. You’re stressed. You threw up once. No biggie. It’s probably a stomach bug. You’re a teacher, and kids are germ magnets. That’s a logical explanation.” I keep talking to myself. “Plenty of people throw up and aren’t pregnant. Right?”

Then it hits me. I’ll take a pregnancy test. The test will confirm I’m not pregnant, and I’m panicking for no reason. I grab my purse and keys before I can talk myself out of it. The decision feels frantic, but it’s better than standing here going crazy.

“I’ll just check,” I mutter, already slipping on my shoes. “Then I’ll know for sure.”

The drive to the store is a blur. This is one of those times that, while driving, you’re zoned out but somehow follow the rules of the road. Before I know it, I arrive at my destination. As I pull left into the parking lot, my stomach rolls again. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel. I find a spot and park crooked, but don’t have it in me to care.

Inside, bright fluorescent lights make me squint as my eyes adjust. I veer right, heading to the back corner, straight for the pharmacy section. I peer up and down each aisle, hoping I don’t see anyone I know. When I reach the shelf, I scan the options—digital, early detection, two-packs, three-pack, and my pulse kicks hard. “This is so stupid,” I whisper, grabbing the first box my hand lands on. After a moment, I grab another box.

Tests in hand, I head to the nearest self-checkout, pay quickly, and leave. On the way back through the nearly empty parking lot, I practically run to my car with the bag clutched to my chest.

The drive home feels endless. Inside, I’m engulfed by a heavy, watchful silence.

After locking the door, I sag against it, my chest tight, heart hammering, and eyes squeezed shut. “Pull yourself together,” I whisper in one slow, shaky breath. I force myself forward, my steps dragging, my legs feeling as though they are made of lead. Dread prickles under my skin as I face the test.

Seconds crawl by while I cling to scraps of courage. Gritting my teeth, I snatch the bag and stumble to the bathroom. My hands are clammy, trembling as I tear open the box. The instructions smear before my eyes, but the test is brutally simple. Pee on the stick and endure the wait. I scoff at the cruel absurdity, hike up my skirt, and sit. Finished, I slam the test by the sink, scrub my hands, and tap the timer on my phone. The wait is agony.

After closing the toilet lid, I sit and wait. I tell myself over and over that everything is going to be fine. As soon as the test confirms I’m not pregnant, I’ll go back to pretending the past six weeks have been one big messy nightmare, and I can move on.

Seconds later, the timer on my phone goes off, and I stop breathing. As if I’m moving in slow motion, I stand, dread crawling up my spine. I pick up the test, and for a split second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. Then reality hits like a tidal wave. The word ‘Pregnant’ stares back at me like a huge, shiny beacon of dread.

“No.” I choke out a sob. My legs give out from underneath me, and I sink onto the floor, the test clattering against the tile beside me. Tears stream down my cheeks, and my stomach churns as another wave of nausea strikes.

This can’t be happening.

I bury my face in the palms of my hands as a sob breaks free despite my efforts to stop it. Shock and fear crash over me at once, leaving me feeling helpless. One night. One life-altering mistake that can’t be fixed. Curling forward, I wrap my arms around myself and begin to rock back and forth. “What have you done?” I say to the empty room.

I’m still on the bathroom floor when there’s an audible gasp coming from behind me, followed by a familiar voice, “Oh shit.”

I turn my head toward the doorway, shock ripping through me so fast my pulse stutters. “London?” I croak.

She’s standing there in the doorway, frozen in place. With her is Promise, one hand lifted to her mouth. Sadie stands slightly off to the side, eyes wide with shock. For a split second, none of them says anything. Then London’s gaze drops to the floor beside me. Sadie and Promise’s gazes follow.

“Oh shit,” London repeats, the word barely louder than a whisper.

“Oh my God, Ruby,” Promise follows. The shock on her face softens instantly, replaced by something raw and worried. Promise’s eyes fill with concern she clearly isn’t trying to hide, and Sadie presses a hand to her chest as if she’s trying to steady herself.

“We knocked,” Sadie says quietly, her voice trembling. “When you didn’t answer, London used her key.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. An array of emotions crashes down on me all over again. I hadn’t been ready for this alone, so there’s no way I’m ready for it with an audience.

London recovers first. “Okay,” she says with a no-nonsense tone, stepping fully into the bathroom. “We’re not having this conversation on the floor.” Promise and Sadie follow her in, all three of them suddenly crowding the small space.