Page 34 of Easy On Me

I frowned at the little cartoon of a red blood drop asking if I’d forgotten to log my period. Cycle deviation? What the heck? With a scoff, I swiped to open the app. No, I had not forgotten to log anything. I remembered my last period because I’d worn ivory jeans to lunch with Maggie and Marilyn and–

Seven weeks.

I stared at the calendar in the app, counting. Seven weeks since my last period. That could not be right. I had a regular five week cycle, and I was never late.

Maybe I’d gotten the date wrong when I put that period in.

I swiped over to our texts, scrolling madly for the lunch planning conversation. And there it was.

The same date as the date of my last period in the app.

Seven weeks ago.

Panic unfurled in my stomach, shooting heat up my chest to grab my throat and squeeze.

I couldn’t be late. I couldn’t. Because if I was late, that might mean . . .

Oh. My. Lord.

No.

With shaking fingers, I fired off a text to Maggie. I need you at the house ASAP

My phone rang within seconds while I was reversing out of the parking spot. I answered using the hands-free button on the steering wheel. Maggie’s voice filled the air around me. “What’s wrong?”

“My period is two weeks late.” Wheeling around, I braked for the exit, thumping my hands against the steering wheel while I watched Coney’s version of rush hour clog up 19, making the left hand turn I needed so I could hit up the CVS appear impossible.

“What?” Surprise sent her voice high enough to be a squeak.

“You heard me.” Grateful for a break in the traffic, I gunned it, crossing the northbound lanes and heading south.

“Oh, my God.” Her whisper only made me shakier, and I blinked hard. This had to be a false alarm. It had to be. “Okay, I’m leaving the office right now and headed to you. Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

Slowing for the first traffic light, I closed my eyes, a hot prickle behind them. We were careful. Okay, so there was that one condom that slipped a couple of weeks ago, but . . . oh, my Lord.

“Tyler?” Maggie’s voice rose again. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No.” I sucked in a trembling breath and clenched the wheel. I couldn’t be pregnant. I couldn’t be.

I wasn’t my mother and I would not make her mistakes all over again.

“Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

“No.” The light flared green, and I glanced in the mirror, changing lanes as soon as I cleared the intersection, then swooping into the turnlane. “Just . . . just meet me at home.”

“You got it.” Her voice dropped, steadied. “Tyler. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah.” Right. Sniffling, I killed the call and skidded into the CVS parking lot, taking the first spot I could. Ignoring the chilly drizzle, I clutched my purse to my chest, my heart thudding, and hustled for the entrance.

Ironically enough, the pregnancy tests shared the same aisle as the condom selection. I grabbed five different brands and checked out as quickly as I could. Minutes later, I pulled into my own driveway, and Maggie jumped out of her SUV, running to hug me, the bounce of her coppery red ponytail a bright spot on the gray day. An arm about me, she pulled me toward the side door. “Come on. Let’s get out of the rain.”

In the kitchen, I dumped the tests out on the counter and snatched one up to read the directions. It seemed simple enough – pee on the stick, recap it, wait two minutes.

Clutching the box, I ran for the bathroom, Maggie on my heels with the other four tests in hand. With shaking hands, I tore open the plastic wrap on the stick and shoved down my slacks and panties. Moments later, the stick waited on the counter and I avoided looking at it while I washed my hands. Instead, I gripped the vanity and stared at my pale face in the mirror.

I couldn’t be. I just couldn’t.

Mama Nancy had rules. She’d drilled them into me from the time I’d gone to live with her.