Page 56 of Ride Me Reckless
Just in case.
A few minutes later, I sat with the test in my hand, my heart beating too fast.
One pink line appeared first. Then another.
Positive.
I stared at it like it was lying to me. Like if I blinked hard enough, it would disappear.
But it didn’t.
That tiny plus sign might as well have been carved into my chest. A future, etched in plastic and ink.
I wrapped it in toilet paper—slowly, methodically—and pushed it to the bottom of the bathroom trash can. Then I stood there, hands braced on the sink, staring at myself in the mirror.
My reflection didn’t look pregnant.
Didn’t look brave, either.
I leaned in, close enough to see the faint freckles across my nose, and whispered to the woman looking back at me.
“Not telling anyone. Not yet.”
Not Callie. Not even Colt.
Not until I saw a doctor. Not until I had a plan. Because this time, I wasn’t going to lose it. Not because I was scared. Not because I was selfish, but because I waited too long to care.
I took a deep breath, shoved my keys into my purse, and glanced back at the trailer. Time to face whatever came next. No more stalling. No more hiding.
When I arrived at the hospital to visit my mom, it seemed to be quiet for a weekday. Maybe it was just me—my nerves, my brain buzzing with everything I wasn’t saying aloud—but even the beeping monitors and distant footsteps felt muted like the world was giving me space. Or waiting for me to crack.
Mama’s room was dim when I stepped inside, the blinds drawn halfway. She was curled on her side, facing the window, one thin arm tucked under her chin. Her breathing was soft butirregular, the kind of shallow that made me want to count the rise and fall just to be sure it stayed steady.
I didn’t call her name. Didn’t try to wake her.
Instead, I pulled the chair close and sat down, letting my hands settle in my lap.
It took a minute before I could really look at her.
She looked… smaller somehow. Not just from the hospital gown or the IV taped to her paper-thin skin. It was something in the way her body curved in on itself. Her hair—usually pinned up in a perfect coil—had gone flat against the pillow, wisps of gray and silver brushing her cheek. The woman who once chased me down the street with a wooden spoon for sassing her at thirteen now looked like she might blow away with the wrong breeze.
My throat tightened.
I reached out and laid my fingers over hers. Cold and fragile. Bones like twigs.
“Mama,” I whispered, not to wake her, just to fill the space. “I’ve got news… big news.”
She didn’t stir.
I smiled faintly, even as the ache pressed deeper into my chest. “But I think I’ll wait to tell you. We both need to get a little stronger first.”
I let that sit there between us, like a prayer without an amen.
Then I lifted my hand and ran my fingers through her hair, slowly, carefully, the way she used to do to me when I was sick. It felt foreign and familiar all at once. We weren’t the type to do this… softness. But maybe it was time.
Perhaps, we both needed it.
The monitor blinked in the corner. Somewhere down the hall, a phone buzzed and was answered with a clipped hello. Life was going on as it always did—messy, relentless, hopeful.
