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Stress. That’s it.
“Stress. Oh my God, yes,” I say in relief.
“I’ve never known you to stress about anything,” she points out.
“I usually don’t, but Corbin has been gone the last week. Valley Fire and Rescue was called out to help fight a wildfire that blazed out of control in Montana,” I explain.
“A wildfire in December? Isn’t that kind of strange?” she asks.
“Not really. According to Corbin, their fire season was extended due to a record drought and unseasonably warm temperatures for the state. They’ve had to deal with several grassland fires this year, and the latest one got out of control. Lots of people have lost their homes and businesses.”
“This close to Christmas? That’s horrible,” Lynn murmurs.
“Yeah, ten thousand acres burned before they got it contained. Thank goodness no lives were lost, and he and the guys are heading home later this evening,” I say.
“I guess that would stress me out too,” she sympathizes.
“That and the fact that I’ve been dieting. I’m fucking hangry,” I growl.
“You, dieting? What the hell for?” she asks.
“Ansley and Garrett’s wedding. Our stupid bridesmaid dresses came in a couple of days ago, and I swear I can barely breathe in the thing. So, I swore off all sweets, sodas, and alcohol until the reception, and then they’d better hope they get a chance to cut the wedding cake before I tackle it and drink a small fortune’s worth of whiskey at the open bar,” I rant.
“A snug dress, you say?”
Shit.
“The dress shop messed up the alterations; even Anna was complaining about her fit,” I reason.
“Uh-huh. Go get a test and call me back,” she demands.
“Whatever.”
I click off the line and go in search of my freaking keys.
I pace around the living room, staring at the timer on my phone.
This has to be the longest three minutes of my life.
When the alarm chimes, I sprint to the bathroom, where the five tests I purchased are lined up on the counter.
My hand trembles as I pick up the first one.
One pink line.
One.
I fish one of the discarded boxes from the wastebasket and read the directions again. One line equals not pregnant. Two lines equal pregnant.
Slumping down onto the toilet seat, I take a deep breath as disappointment washes over me.
Wait, what? Disappointment?
No. Not disappointment. Relief. It has to be relief.
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. This is a good thing. No, this is a great thing. I have no business being anyone’s mother. I’m not a nurturer. I work in a brewery. I drive a motorcycle, break up bar fights, and get hangry when I have to skip dessert, for goodness’ sake.
Corbin and I haven’t even talked about marriage yet, much less having a baby.
