Page 44 of Not My Finest Hour

“What’s wrong? Why do you want to know?” she asks, turning back toward me.

“Nothing,” I say, and leave it at that. Because there’s no way that it could be true. It’s probably just stress. Sure, I’ve never skipped a period before, but who knows?

During dinner, I pick at my food, not really tasting it because my mind is too focused on my late period. And on my way home from work the next day, I stop at the drugstore and pick up a pack of pregnancy tests. Good thing these things come in packs of three because I don’t think I’d believe just one of them.

That evening, I take a test. The three minutes I have to wait are excruciating. My mind races. My entire future flashes before my eyes in those three minutes, and I’m left wondering if it is positive, am I ready for that kind of commitment? Am I really ready to be a mom? Do I even want that? I’m only twenty-six with still so much to achieve in life, but can I really achieve that while being a parent? I know there are plenty of people who make a career and children work, but I’ve always admired my mother’s choice of staying at home to raise Fern and me. If it’s financially feasible, that’s what I’d like to do.

Part of me can already see my growing belly, the car seats, the baby toys, the nursery. Even the sleepless nights, the round-the-clock feedings, and if I make a mistake, wondering if I’m going to screw up my child for life. All of it. I can see Justin and me being supportive, doting parents on this wonderful miracle, and we’re together through it all, like one big happy family.

But then there’s the other part of me that worries about the missed opportunities, the fact that my career is over, and my identity will be wrapped up in my child’s. I’ll no longer be Dahlia. I’ll be so-and-so’s mom.

And then there’s Justin. He said it himself that he’s not ready for children yet. Those words came right out of his mouth when he was here for breakfast. He loves bringing children into this world—just not his children. Not yet.

I look down at the pregnancy test on the counter. Positive. How could this be? We used protection. Am I seriously part of the one percent that experienced a condom failure?

A feeling of dread hits me in an instant, and nervous butterflies flutter around in my stomach.Okay.Maybe it’s a false positive. It says in the directions that for the best results, test in the morning. So that’s what I’ll do. This will all be okay, and in the morning my life will go back to normal.

But the next morning when I test, I get the same result. Positive. Those two pink lines are like a curse word to me. And since I have three in this pack, I might as well put the nail in the coffin. Positive.

I sit down on the toilet seat with my head in my hands. What am I going to do? The thought of having an abortion quickly flashes through my mind.

No. I can’t. I can’t bear the thought of losing a part of me. I don’t fault anyone for choosing that route, but I can’t go through with it. Even though I just tested positive, I already feel an obligation to keep this baby safe.

But I can’t keep it a secret. Eventually I’ll start to show and Justin will definitely take notice. Not only that, but my family will notice, and I wouldn’t want to keep it from them anyway.

I have to tell Justin first, and I’ll use our date tonight to break the news to him. We’re going out to a restaurant, and while I don’t want to spring this news on him in the company of others, I also don’t want to keep this to myself for any length of time. He deserves to know, and he deserves to know as soon as possible.

With the rest of the time I have before our date, I try to keep busy around the house, cleaning things, and chipping away at the book I was reading. But nervousness gnaws away at me, making it difficult to concentrate. I try to make myself scarce because I don’t want to let on to Fern that something is amiss.

When it’s finally time for me to get ready, it takes me a while to choose my outfit. What exactly do you wear when you want to tell your boyfriend you’re pregnant? At least I think that’s what we are—boyfriend and girlfriend, not that we need to put a label on it. I settle on a light gray turtleneck sweater to match both my mood and the weather and a pair of skinny jeans. Right before I’m about to leave, I send Justin a text telling him that I’m excited for our date and I’ll see him soon at the restaurant. I can’t let on that I have news for him.

We agreed earlier in the week to drive separately because Justin is on call at the hospital this weekend. We’ve tried to text as much as possible, but he’s been really busy this week, so sometimes he’ll go hours without responding to my texts. This should bother me, but it doesn’t. I know he’s been tied up with his residency, and he’ll respond when he can.

But I’m a little concerned that by the time I get to the restaurant, I still haven’t heard from him. We agreed to meet at seven, and yes, I’m fifteen minutes early, but that’s notthatearly.

I wait in my car, listening to the rain pattering on the roof, my fingers drumming a beat on my pant leg. I scan the parking lot for any sign of his not-very-sexy-but-practical, four-door sedan, and don’t see it anywhere. It’s possible that I can’t see it from where I’m sitting, and he could be inside already. I decide to chance it and head in. The hostess greets me right away, and I tell her I’m meeting someone and describe Justin to her.

“Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone who looks like your description,” she says, her expression looking something like pity. “If you’d like, you can wait here, or I can seat you at a table.”

Something tells me that if I sit here in the waiting area, she would just stare at me and feel bad for me the whole time. “I’ll take the table, thanks.” She seats me at a booth in the corner of the dining room, far away from the other, more cheerful patrons, further cementing that she pities me.

A server stops by my table, and I tell him that I’m waiting for someone. He asks me if I’d like something to drink while I wait, and I opt for a glass of water. Fifteen minutes go by and still no word from Justin. My server stops by again, this time asking if I’d like something to eat. I decline, stating that I want to wait a little bit longer. But then another fifteen minutes go by. Then an hour. Still no Justin. Still no text. By this point, I’m feeling awful that I took up this server’s table the whole time and didn’t order anything. I leave twenty dollars on the table and get out of there as quickly as possible, making sure the hostess doesn’t see me on my way out.

When I get home, Fern is lounging on the couch and sits up when I come through the door.

“You’re home way earlier than I thought you’d be.” The expression on my face must be one of misery because a worried look crosses her face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I toss my phone on the sofa table and plop down on the couch. “He didn’t show up.”

“What? Did he say why?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t heard from him at all. I sent him a text before I left, and I sat at the restaurant for over an hour waiting for him.”

Fern scooches closer to me and wraps me up in a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. You said he’s on call this weekend, so I bet that had something to do with it.”

I brush away the couple of tears that managed to form and pull away from her. “I’m sure it does. But I had some news for him that I wanted to get off my chest tonight.”

“Anything you want to share with your big sister?”

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