Pretty Little Mistake

I have to be in an alternate dimension.

It’s the only plausible explanation as to why I’m in a pharmacy a corner away from Lennon’s apartment, pacing the fucking family-planning aisle of all things. They should really have a family-accidents aisle for this sort of thing.

I tug at my hair for at least the hundredth time since Lennon shoved me out of her apartment with a demand to, and I quote, “Bring back a pregnancy test—all of them, not just one.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter to myself, picking up another box.

Why are there so many?

Do you really need this many options to tell you whether you’re pregnant? Why can’t they make one that gives a simple yes-or-no response? Doesn’t that seem reasonable? Instead, there are some with smiley and frowny faces, others with lines, some that tell you five days before your missed period, and—

“Sir, do you need help?”

I turn to find a middle-aged woman with an employee badge. There’s a split second where I almost drop to my knees in front of the woman and hug her legs, because she’s my hero right now.

“I need . . .” I gulp. What I need is to wake up and realize that all this is some sort of elaborate dream, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon. “Some of these.” I waggle my fingers in the vicinity of the tests. “I don’t know what to get.”

“Well,” she says, looking me up and down, “I don’t think you’re worried about cost, so ignore these. They’re not very reliable.” She motions to a few boxes that I already decided look questionable.

“I need reliable. I need a definite yes or no.”

“I’m taking it this was unplanned?” She arches a brow, but there’s no judgment emanating off her.

“Definitely.”

Lennon. Pregnant. Maybe pregnant. With my . . . kid.

That’s hard to wrap my brain around. I mean, I assume it would be mine if she’s pregnant. Could it be someone else’s? That thought makes me irrationally angry, which is absurd since if she’s knocked up and I’m not the dad, then it means I’m off the hook. Shouldn’t that be what I want?

I don’t have time to sort out my feelings right now.

“Get these,” the woman, Susan, according to her name tag, suggests. She pulls the box off the shelf and drops it in my basket. “There’s five in there, just in case you want more than one.”

“Is it easy to use?”

She motions for me to follow her to the registers. “All your lady friend has to do is pee in a cup, dip, and wait.”

“Yeah, but does it spell it out plainly? Those lines look confusing.”

“It’ll say pregnant or not pregnant. Nothing complicated about it.”

I let out a breath, suddenly feeling exhausted. It’s already been a hard day—my bio-dad isn’t doing well, so I spent the morning checking in on him.

“Thank you. For your help.”

Susan steps behind the register, looking amused. “I get the impression you don’t say thank you a lot, so you’re welcome.” She checks me out, wrapping the box in a white plastic bag before she hands it to me. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I don’t know which way she’s hoping it’ll go. I don’t even know which way I want it to go. I’m not sure my thoughts have ever been so jumbled.

Pregnant.

Lennon might be pregnant.

Holy shit.

I speed-walk back to her place, then press the buzzer for her to let me in.

Perspiration dots my forehead, and it’s not even hot out. That’s how unhinged I am right now.

Lennon already has the door open, waiting for me. Her eyes are red, like she’s been crying. That brings me up short. Sure, I’ve been freaking out, too, but I never stopped to think about what she might be feeling.

“Is that it?” She nods to the bag in my hand.

I hold it out. “Yeah.”

She takes it eagerly before booking it to the bathroom. I lock up behind me, and even though I should give her space, I find that I can’t. I stand outside the closed bathroom door.

“You know,” I say, rubbing my jaw, “I never thought I’d spend so much time with you in and around bathrooms.”

“Shut up, Beckham.”

“Noted.” I mime zipping my lips, even though she’s not there to see it.

I wait, listening through the door as she flushes and washes her hands. When the door opens, I nearly fall inside.

“Jesus, were you listening to me pee like a creeper?” Her nose crinkles in mild horror.

I ignore her creeper comment. “What does it say? Are you pregnant?”

“We have to give it five minutes.” She walks past me to the small kitchen and grabs a fresh bottle of water. She unscrews the cap, rolling the small plastic top around on the counter before taking a tentative sip. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she stares out the window like she’s searching for some sort of answers there.

“I have to ask . . . ,” I start. She looks away from the window, making reluctant eye contact with me. “Am I . . . would I be the father?”

She looks halfway tempted to chuck the open bottle at me. “What kind of question is that?”

“Hey!” I throw my hands up in defense. “I’m not judging, if that’s what you think. I don’t know what kind of sex life you have.”

“A pretty dry one,” she mumbles. “Before you, it’d been over a year. Not that it’s any of your business, and no, there’s been no one after.” She places her palms on the stone counter, her shoulders practically curling in on themselves. She starts to shake, and I realize she’s crying.

She’s fucking crying.

What the hell am I supposed to do with a crying woman? I’m not cut out for this kind of shit.

“I . . . um . . .” I stuff my hands in my pockets.

“You don’t need to say anything.” She sniffles, grabbing a paper towel to dot her eyes. “This is just—” She throws her hands up in a What am I going to do about it? gesture. “Life, I guess. It’s ironic, hilarious, and sometimes downright cruel.”

My jaw tics at that. I don’t know why I take offense to her words. It shouldn’t matter. I know I haven’t been the most accommodating person for her, but I don’t want her to view me as the villain in her story either.

For once in my life, I’m at a loss for words, so I choose to keep my mouth shut instead of letting something moronic slip through.

Lennon glances down at her phone. “It should be ready.” Pushing her hair back from her forehead, she starts for the bathroom. She comes to a stop before swinging around and colliding with my chest, since I followed her. She backs up, looking down at her feet. “Will you look first?”

I gape at her. “You want me to check it?” I point at my chest.

She nods, her top teeth digging lightly into her plump bottom lip. “Go look and tell me.”

I hesitate for a moment, in case she changes her mind. Leaving her standing by the couch, I walk to the bathroom like I’m headed to the gallows.

The problem is, I’m not sure which outcome I’m dreading the most. Surely, the answer should be obvious. I shouldn’t want Lennon to be pregnant. We’re not together, we hate each other, we’re young—there’s an endless list of reasons why this would be bad.

But some small part of me is wondering, What if?

I’ve never really contemplated the idea of being a dad. Marriage, babies, the whole shebang never crossed my mind, and now I’m standing before a crossroads.

One where my life is going to either stay on the path I envisioned or completely deviate to a different, uncharted route.

“Beckham,” she pleads, covering her face with her hands, “look at it.”

Her words remind me that I still haven’t breached the threshold.

I take that final step into the bathroom and peer down at the tiny stick that holds our fate.

And clear as day, spelled out plainly just like dear ole Susan knew I needed, we have our answer.