Page 100 of Forbidden Dark Vows

Misinterpreting my tears, Dad reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “It’s going to be okay, Ruby. You don’t need to worry about me, you know.”

I suck my bottom lip. “You might as well tell me to stop breathing or reading books.”

The tears keep flowing. I feel like a walking bag of emotions today and they’re going to get worse on our wedding day when Harry sees what I’ve planned for him.

“Sorry.” Dad hands me a box of tissues. “I’ve really gone and done it now, haven’t I?” He watches me dabbing my eyes, squeezing the tears out and trying to smile through it. “Everything okay, Ruby?”

I can’t look at him. My dad has always been able to see right through me. “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you about Harry. His last name is Weiss—he’s the son of Karl Weiss.” “You’re starting a new life with a wonderful man. It doesn’t matter that he’s Karl’s son as long as you love him. He has proven how much he loves you by his actions. I’m not going to hold you back, not when there’s a whole world out there just waiting to be discovered.”

His tender words release the stress of my worries and I shudder in relief.

“You’re feeling okay though?” He implores.

I don’t tell him that I was sick again this morning. I skipped breakfast, and my stomach is growling, but I’ll be fine once I’ve eaten.

After a deep breath I reply, “Now who’s worrying for nothing?”

I change the subject and tell him about my plans for the eve of the wedding, but I can tell he isn’t fooled.

Once I’ve helpedhim write his speech, I leave the center and pop to the grocery store to pick up more ingredients for pizza and to stock up on pickled onions and baby pickles. I hold my nose as I wander along the fresh produce aisle, and again when I reach the toiletries section. Someone has sprayed deodorant or cologne, and my head starts to pound the instant I get the first whiff. A woman wearing a paisley scarf wrapped around her neck and more layers than I can count without staring, eyes me up like I forgot to button my shirt.

Outside, I suck in great gulps of polluted air, open a family-sized packet of potato chips, and cram as many into my mouth as I can fit. Strolling along the street, my eyes are drawn to a baby boutique that I haven’t noticed before. There’s a crib mobile in the window in neutral colors with fluffy clouds, soft animals, and sparkly stars.

Closer, and I press my forehead to the storefront window. I watch it spinning around, mesmerized, and wonder what tune it’s playing at the same time. What tunes do babies like to listen to?

Still stuffing potato chips into my mouth, my gaze drifts to a rocking crib trimmed with white broderie anglaise, two softteddy bears in pastel shades of blue and pink strategically placed inside the basket. There are more soft toys: a long-necked giraffe, a Winnie the Pooh, and a black-eyed panda. Tiny outfits with coordinating bonnets and bootees. Dinky polka-dot wellington boots.

Another wave of nausea crashes through me, and I close my eyes waiting for it to pass.

Am I overdue? I frantically try thinking back to my last period… Was it before I was admitted to the hospital or after? Why can’t I remember? It’s as though my brain is refusing to settle the one thing I’m trying to figure out, but already I’m imagining all kinds of twinges and tenderness that were not there a few moments ago. Come to think of it, my breasts were sore when Harry groped them yesterday morning.

I head back home in a daze. The nausea, the tears, the craving for baby pickles—could I be…?

I stop off at the pharmacy. Back at the apartment, I tear the wrapper off the test I bought skim-reading the instructions which tell me the best time to do this is first thing in the morning, and pee on the plastic stick anyway.

Then I wait the obligatory two minutes, forcing myself not to look at the tiny screen before the time is up. “Come on,” I mutter to myself, checking my watch for what must be the twenty-fifth time. Two minutes has never taken so long, and just when I’m starting to think that I’ve rewritten the theory of time, the two minutes are up.

I stare at the two lines in the center of the testing stick.

O-kay…

I go back to the instructions, study the‘How to read your result’section three times, and then hold the stick so close to my eyes that everything blurs. Blink. Two lines. Blink again, harder this time. Still two lines.

I can’t be pregnant. We both want children of course, it was one of the first things we talked about in Scotland, but we never discussed when. We didn’t put a timeline on it. I kind of assumed that we would have some time alone together first, vacations, our first Christmas, impromptu trips to Vegas or Mexico or New Orleans. I didn’t expect to meet the man of my dreams, get married, and give birth all in the same year.

I wander back to the kitchen, still clutching the stick tightly. I make coffee and then pour it down the sink when the smell makes me feel queasy. I sip a glass of cold water slowly, my brain reviving little by little.

How did this even happen?

My face grows hot, my heart skipping several beats in a row when I realize that I haven’t taken the pill since I came to New York. I was so wrapped up in the Chicago drama that it hasn’t even occurred to me until now.

Grabbing my coat, I dash back to the pharmacy and buy another test. To be sure. Fuck it. I buy five tests and run back to the apartment with them, my breasts feeling heavier and sorer by the second.

The second test is positive too.

And the third.

And every other test after that one.

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