Page 8 of Glass Wings

I make it to the bathroom with only seconds to spare and grip the rim of the toilet like it’s a steering wheel. My eyes water. My stomach heaves. The sound is ugly and familiar. Afterward, I rest my forehead on my forearm and let out a slow breath.

It’s stress, I start to tell myself again, but there’s this little voice of doubt that keeps whispering something I’m not quite ready to face. The mirror shows a version of me I don’t like, cheeks splotchy, mascara smudged at the corners, and eyes devoid of life.

I brush my teeth and sit on the edge of the tub, but within seconds, I’m standing again because sitting makes the room tilt. This has to be more than stress.

The little dots start connecting on their own, gentle at first and then fast. Dizzy in the room this morning and bone-deep tired all week. The way coffee turned my tongue sour yesterday…a calendar that suddenly feels like a trap. I count backward, and the number I land on makes my knees go loose.

“No,” I say. Trying to remember when. We were careful. We didn’t want kids yet. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I could barely take care of myself.

Flying across the room, I search for my tote bag; I always keep an emergency test for those random times my period is a day or two late.

My bag is slumped in the corner where I tossed it. I kneel and dig through Chapstick and sunglasses, and the water bottle I never opened. My fingers find the pharmacy receipt, then the box I bought two days ago to replenish my supply.

I open it.

The little stick is absurdly small. I read the instructions twice, three times, like the steps might change if I concentrate. I do what it says. I set it on the counter and watch the window change from blank to waiting.

Two minutes can last a year.

I pace. I sit. I stand. My stomach flips again, and I breathe through it, palm flat against my belly like I can talk it down. I think of Easton’s face in the back of the car. I think of the way he said to stay calm like he meant it for both of us.

The timer on my phone chirps and I flinch like I’ve been caught.

I don’t want to look.

I look.

Two lines. Pink and sure and not sorry at all.

Something inside me splits and spills, hot and cold at the same time. It isn’t joy. Its fear shaped like a bell that rings through my ears.

How?

Why now?

How do I do this?

What if I can’t do this?

What if Easton doesn’t make bail?

What if he goes back to prison?

I sit on the closed toilet lid and press both hands to my mouth. My eyes flood with tears for the baby growing inside of me, and for the man sitting behind bars right now.

The body I have been at war with for years has been busy building a secret. She didn’t ask permission. She didn’t wait until I liked her. She just did it anyway.

I laugh, and it breaks into a sob halfway through.

The first person I want to tell is the same person who can’t pick up his phone. So, I tell the room. I tell the mirror. I tell the girl in the glass who isn’t sure she deserves anything good, and I tell the faucet and the air conditioner and the tiny bar of hotel soap.

“I’m pregnant,” I whisper, and the word looks different on my mouth than it did in my head. Softer. Bigger. Real.

I pick up the stick again, like it might have changed its mind while I wasn’t looking. It hasn’t. I set it down, and the next thought arrives like it was waiting impatiently in the hallway. Easton. He didn’t choose to leave. He never chooses it. And still he is gone when I need him. That old bruise where trust lives throbs like I hit it on the corner of the coffee table.

Anger skates over the surface of fear, thin and bright. We promised. We were careful. We were trying. You said no more fists. I remind him of all this in my head and immediately feel mean. I didn’t see what happened. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe there wasn’t. The facts don’t care that I’m pregnant. The judge won’t either.

I rinse my face and pat it dry. The girl in the mirror is still me, only she is not alone anymore. There is a thread running from under my palm into some small, quiet place, where new things decide to become.