AllFreeNovel
Share Us
This is the biggest question of all. First and foremost—gut instinct told me from the start, this baby isn’t mine. Second—seeing the size of Janine’s belly when she walked into the clinic, instinct went into hyperdrive. The sooner I have the results, the sooner this clinic confirms what I know deep in my soul, the sooner this whole debacle will be over.
And although I swear the outcome will swing in my favor, it doesn’t stop the constant, violent buzz from the hornet’s nest inside my rib cage.
“Test results typically come back in two to five days, depending on how busy the lab is. With the pregnancy at nineteen weeks, the sample from the mother is easier to attain. As soon as the results are available, we send them to the email address you listed as well as a physical copy via postal mail. Any other questions?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am.” But I do stash the pregnancy time frame away for further thought.
“Very good.”
The tech or nurse or doctor—whatever she is—walks over to the small sink and sets the file on the counter before washing her hands. She resumes her position in front of me and goes through a routine she probably does dozens of times per day.
She picks up glove one and works her hand into it. Sweat pricks my forehead and temples.
Repeats the process for glove two. A drop of sweat rolls down my temple and lodges itself in the stubble I have yet to shave.
She breaks the seal on the tube and sets the stopper on the tray. I swallow in an effort to rid the lump in my throat.
Next, she peels open the cotton swab package and removes the largest Q-Tip I have ever seen. My pulse whooshes loud and fast and hard in my ears.
“Open your mouth as wide as possible, please,” she instructs.
I follow her instructions and avert my gaze to the ceiling. Bad enough I have to do this, but to witness the process… no thanks. Seconds that mirror centuries pass as the cotton wad scrapes and swirls and gathers from my cheek. My fingers curl into fists as my breathing escalates. I work to focus on anything except the fibrous material collecting my cells.
“All done,” the woman states. My eyes open and I watch as she places the swab in the tube, replaces the stopper, peels a red strip off a paper and seals it around the tube and stopper. “This sticker assures your sample is not contaminated before processing. If the sample gets opened, this sticker separates and lets the technician know the sample has been opened and compromised.”
She peels the gloves away, tosses them in the red biohazardous waste bin and washes her hands again. She dries her hands with paper towels, tosses them in the bin, collects my patient file and sample, then guides us to the door.
“One last stop before you leave,” she states. “If you’ll follow me.”
We continue down the corridor and stop another twenty feet down beside a smoky sliding window. She knocks on the window and a moment later, it slides open.
“Afternoon, Becca,” a man says with a smile.
“Hey, Frank. Sample drop off.”
My eyes remain locked on the long tube as she hands it over to the man. He takes it and tosses me a cordial smile. Before another word is spoken, the tube disappears from view and the window shuts.
“You’re all set. Let me walk you out to the front.” The woman steps in front and leads us to the waiting area door.
Peyton laces her fingers with mine and gives them a squeeze. I glance her way, take in her subtle smile and gentle eyes. How she studies me, reads the words I don’t speak aloud. I soak up her quiet strength and tenacious affection. An affection I never expected to receive, but will cherish every day I have it.
No one occupies the waiting room when we step out. The receptionist confirms my email and mailing address and phone number one last time before we leave. He reiterates how and when I will receive the results. Then we leave.
“Hungry?” Peyton asks as she drives us out of the lot.
“Yes and no. Probably should eat.”
“I’ll find somewhere closer to the house.”
For a beat, a small sliver of my brain focuses on how Peyton said the house and not your house. Call my thought process juvenile, I don’t give a fuck, but small differences like that do crazy things to my heart.
Unfortunately, all happy thoughts leave my head as I recycle what just happened at the clinic. Hundreds of what-if questions cycle through my mind. Questions that have no resolute answer until the results hit my inbox. Of course, I can speculate where all this will lead, but without answers, it isn’t worth expending the energy or torturing myself.
Then, I recall something else. “With the pregnancy at nineteen weeks, the sample from the mother is easier to attain.” Nineteen weeks. Nineteen. Weeks. What is that in months? Just shy of five, and half the normal gestation period of human pregnancy.
Five months seems like too long.
Two months have passed since she came into Roar with her announcement. Call me crazy, or ignorant, but don’t most women have some sign or symptom of pregnancy within a month or so? If she is nineteen weeks, that means she was roughly eleven weeks along when she spoke up. Which makes no sense whatsoever.
I think back to months ago. Run through the faces of women I went to bed with and when. A not-so-simple task since I slept with dozens of women in the months leading up to me and Peyton. The moment sparks flew between us, the moment I thought it possible to have more with Peyton, I refused to be with another woman.
When I finally recall Janine’s face, my eyes go wide. She was literally one of the last few women I slept with before cutting myself off. At the end of April.
“This baby isn’t mine,” I say over the radio.
Peyton pats my thigh before leaving her hand there. “I hope that’s true, but we won’t know until the results are back.”
I turn in the passenger seat to face her and all but slice my throat with the seat belt. After I adjust the belt, I continue my thought. My voice stronger, louder, bolder this time. “No. I mean, there is no possible way this baby is mine.”
Peyton takes her eyes off the road a split second to narrow them at me. “How can you be so sure?”
I lay my hand over hers and take a cleansing breath. “The person who took my sample, she said Janine is nineteen weeks.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Since the letter yesterday, I’ve been in my head a lot. One thing I remembered…” I pause for a beat and take a deep breath. “…is when I was with her. Yes, I have been with a lot of women, but I don’t forget a face. Ever. And I’ve been thinking about it, really thinking about it, since that woman said nineteen weeks.”
I stare out the driver’s side window. Take in the Bay as the sun glistens on the water. Stare after the seagulls as they fight over scraps from an unlidded trash bin. For the first time in less than twenty-four hours, a sense of relief washes over me.
“And? Don’t leave me hanging.”
