Page 87 of Where I Should’ve Been

I study my face in the mirror, expecting the poltergeist, but for a woman who’s spent the morning retching, I look remarkably at ease. Softer than normal—like I’ve finally gotten enough oxygen after years of deprivation.

The bag crinkles as I dig inside, discarding it in Josie’s small trash can and tearing open the cardboard box to pull out the test.

My hands shake as I try to rip the seam of the blue foil package, failing two times before getting it. I take a deep breath as I read through the instructions carefully, summarizing in my head as I go—uncap, pee a continuous stream on the absorption pad for at least five seconds, recap, and then lie test flat for three or more minutes.

It seems simple, but the sheer audacity of needing to take this test for the first time in my life because I might be knocked up by a freaking sheep farmer from one of the smallest freaking towns ever is…overbearing, to say the least.

I lick my lips and set the foil on the countertop next to the sink basin, holding the test with a viselike grip while I pull my pants down and sit on the toilet seat. Josie has a picture of a flowerpot hanging on the wall directly across from me, and I find myself counting the petals along with the seconds as I place the test between my legs.

One, two, three, four, five. Six—just in case.

My hands are trembling—not from clumsiness, but from the quiet, creeping realization that everything could change because of one tiny pink line.

I recap the test and then lay it on the counter beside the foil packaging while I finish my business, flush, and wash my hands.

Once done, my palm drifts to my stomach before I can stop it. The gesture feels foreign, like I’m touching someone else’s body.

Motherhood was never something I pictured for myself. Never something I wanted, or maybe just never something I let myself want. I’ve spent so many years trying to control everything, and being a mother has always felt like the opposite of control. It’s pure surrender.

Still, the thought of it now—of the possibility—hits me somewhere deep and shaky. Because, if this test is positive, it means something inside me decided I was ready before I ever said I was.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

I exhale slowly and try to steady myself by bracing my hands on the bathroom sink.

I shouldn’t be here.

If my father hadn’t died, if he’d done right by the years I gave him and Bishop Galleries, I’d still be in New York. I’d still be busy, sharp, untouchable. And you’d still be pretending that chasing artists and investors and building an empire meant you weren’t lonely and subconsciously craving a life that felt like living.

I sigh. Bottom line, if my father hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be in Red Bridge. I wouldn’t be in Tad Hanson’s orbit. And I wouldn’t be standing in Josie’s bathroom with a pregnancy test on the counter.

And yet, here I am.

Whatever this thing is between Tad and me, I’ve been telling myself it’s light and uncomplicated. I mean, casual is what we said from the start.

But maybe it never was…

God, what will he say if this test is positive?

What will I say? What will I think and feel?

Checking my watch quickly, I note the time that’s passed and blow out another audible breath. There’s about a minute left—a minute to wait on one of the scariest answers I’ve ever dared to ask for.

My phone buzzes in my purse, and I dig it out to look at it.

Tad: You okay? I’m worried about you.

Yeah. I’m worried about me too.

…

My steps are wooden and choppy as I head back down the hall toward Josie’s kitchen, her and Norah’s voices echoing softly toward me.

They bicker and laugh like only siblings can, and I take comfort in the warmth of familiarity. Bennett and I have always been loving enemies—the type of family that fights one minute and defends to the death the next—and Josie and Norah are much the same way.

Both of their heads come up as I round the corner, and my words catch in my chest.

“Well?” Norah asks gently, glancing back to Josie before settling on me once and for all.