Page 75 of The Naughty Elf

Oh no. It can’t have that much of an effect on my birth control. Right?

Right?

I’m so screwed.

Time to face the music. At least with myself.

Forcing my feet to take me back to my bathroom and that little pee stick on my counter, I hover over it.

Finally building up the courage, I grab it and turn it over, revealing a clear blue plus sign in the window.

Iampregnant.

33

GINGER

It’s been a couple of days. I’m less nauseous but still feeling rundown. My sleep hasn’t been great, but that might be due to the fact that I haven’t talked to anyone but Gracie since my meltdown.

She seems to know that something’s wrong, but isn’t asking me about it. Sitting in the passenger seat, she sings along to the radio, but she’s not dancing like she usually does. Her big art project is due today.

It came out so beautifully that I cried when she showed it to me. Probably her first clue that her momma isn’t functioning normally.

I squeeze her hand and lean in for a kiss as I drop her off at school. “I can’t wait to hear what your teacher has to say about that landscape you painted. It’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Mom.” And Gracie slips out of my car, leaving me stuck for a minute before someone honks. I wave my apologies before pulling out of line and taking my time getting back home.

There’s nothing to do. I’m just wallowing in my empty house, battling the intrusive, circling thoughts of raising another childall on my own. When I make my nest on my couch, it’s like an invisible weight slams down to pin me in place.

My phone buzzes a few times with morning texts. It’s mom asking if I need anything. Ashley sending his customary,Morning, beautiful. I miss hearing him say it.

Jackson calls in the afternoon, but I don’t answer.

I’m staring out the back sliding glass door when Dad knocks and lets himself in.

He looks tired, the circles under his eyes a little darker than usual, his mouth set in a grim line, the furrow of his brow deeper. Dad carries a paper bag to my kitchen counter before he comes to sit with me on the couch.

I don’t fight him when he pulls me into his side and wraps an arm around me. He smells like hay and horses and sunshine.

A little of my fear and anxiety evaporates having him hold me like this.

When he takes a deep breath, I know he’s going to ask me about the guys. “Tell me they didn’t take advantage of you.”

“They didn’t.” My voice is so small it doesn’t sound like mine. I’m being really convincing, but I have no energy left for my usual confidence.

“And that’s something you want?” Dad’s voice turns gruff, and he clears his throat gently.

“It is.” That confession eases more of my anxieties because I do want to be with them, even though I’m sure they’ll change their minds when they find out I’m pregnant.

God, story of my life.

He nods and squeezes me tighter, but I’m not sure I’ve convinced him. Not his fault. I’m not myself, which means I can’t blame him for questioning my answers. Still, he’s not lecturing me, not yelling, not looking at me like the whore of Babylon.

He didn’t overreact when I got pregnant with Gracie at sixteen. Never once has he called me a derogatory name for mymistake. Nearly eight years later, it certainly doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not with how wonderful my daughter has turned out.

No one can argue with me about that fact.

The same will be true with my new baby. They’ll be wonderful and worth all of the grief that comes with being a single mom.

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