Page 103 of Call You Mine
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
I resist the urge to do it again, just so I can be absolutely sure the doors are locked, as I lower to my knees to reach into the cabinet under the sink. I hid a bag of at least half a dozen tests I got this morning after Anderson left for work.
When it’s all said and done, I set the timer on my phone next to the face-down test.
And I wait.
If it’s positive, then I have choices.
I could keep the baby.
The thought lands heavy and unfamiliar in my chest, like something fragile I’m afraid to touch too closely.
A baby means rearranging an entire life I’ve spent years carefully controlling. It means telling Anderson and watching his face as the words settle in. It means Georgie, too—figuringout how she fits into something like this, whether she’d be excited or confused or both.
I picture a tiny pair of socks, a car seat in the back of the car, the slow shift of everything I thought the next few years of my life would look like—already having done so when I decided to adopt Georgie.
It means rethinking what this entire marriage means.
And it’s fucking terrifying.
There’s a small, quiet part of me that wonders what it would feel like if it weren’t.
But keeping it isn’t the only option. I could end it before any of that becomes real, before it becomes something with a heartbeat and a nursery and a place in my life I can’t undo.
Women do it every day. It would be my decision—mybody,myfuture. Staying on the track I planned for. Staying within a scope I can control.
Babies are unpredictable and messy, and change every aspect of the life you thought you knew.
Abortionisan option.
There’s something deep inside my heart, telling me that Anderson would support my right to choose—I’m almost certain of that—but the idea still sits heavy in my chest, tangled with confusion and guilt that shouldn’t even belong to me.
Either way, nothing about this is simple. Every path splits into a dozen more, and all of them feel huge and permanent and impossible to think about when I’m still standing here in my bathroom, staring at a test.
One I don’t let myself believe will tell me what I already know.
My timer rings, and my breath catches.
Flipping the test over, I see the two lines, just like I did this morning—but I still don’t believe it.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter, and my chest squeezes.
I inhale slowly, forcing the air all the way down into my lungs, but it doesn’t help. My brain is already racing ahead, pulling apart every possibility, every statistic, every worst-case scenario.
Opening and closing my fists, I start to count, pacing the bathroom floor as panic begins building under my ribs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
My gaze flicks to the test, and I lose count, having to start all over.
