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CASSIA
After dropping Sydney off at her condo, I stop at the pharmacy. I’m not sure if she’ll be grateful. She didn’t mention the possible pregnancy once during our trip to get ice cream. And maybe this is a step she should take herself whenever she’s ready. But I also knownotknowing must be driving a part of her crazy. It’s drivingmecrazy.
Guilt swirls in my stomach as my steps shuffle along the gray carpet past packages of pads. Not only am I going against what Sydney wants right now, but I’m keeping this huge secret from Holden. He’d want to know Sydney is struggling. The sooner Sydney knows for sure, the sooner I’ll know how big of a secret it is.
When I make it to the end of the aisle, there are way more options for pregnancy tests than I was expecting. If our situations were reversed, Holden is who I would tell first. But Sydney is the person I would bring along on this trip. Maybe we’d be giggling nervously about how many different options there are. Wonderingwhythere are countless choices. Aren’t they all the same?
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe I’d be paralyzed by the possibilities the same way Sydney is.
Denial isn’t always a terrible place to be.
After staring at the boxes for a few seconds longer, I randomly grab one off the shelf.
My palms dampen with sweat as I rush down the aisle.
Pembrooke is a small town.
The realization I’m rushing piles on another hefty dose of guilt. Because I know I’m not the one who’s potentially pregnant, but I feel ashamed by the box I’m carrying anyway.
Irresponsible and insecure.
“Cassia?”
I glance to the left, hastily angling the box I’m holding behind my back.
Mrs. Golden, my American History teacher in high school, is standing at the end of the aisle beside the display of laundry detergent on sale.
“Hi, Mrs. Golden. How are you?”
My manners kick in automatically despite the nerves pinballing around my stomach.
“I’m doing fine, Cassia. How have you been?”
Maybe it’s my guilty conscience, but I swear she glances at my hidden hand.
“Good. I’ve had a nice summer.”
“You’ll be a senior at Richmond, right?”
I nod, surprised and touched she knows that. She’s had a lot of other students besides me. “Right.”
“That’s where Holden Adams ended up as well, correct?”
It’s never really occurred to me before that teachers must hear some of the gossip that circulates through the student body. Partly because I spent most of high school doing nothing that was gossip-worthy.
“Yeah, he did.”
“Do you see each other much?”
I nod. “We’re still together.”
Mrs. Golden smiles. “I had a good feeling about you two. Only thing he aced all semester was the paper you helped him with.”
“Holden wrote that himself,” I say, some ancient—or never-ending—urge to defend him sparking to life.
“Oh, I know.” Mrs. Golden smiles. “It takes a special motivation to get a reliably C-student to turn in A material.”
Her smile fades as she glances down the aisle behind me. This time, she definitely looks at my hand. Silent questions swim in the air between us.
