Page 102 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
I press my thumb to the little notch in the door frame where the paint meets the caulk. My hand shakes. I curl it into a fist and slip it into my pocket like that can hide the trembling.
“Hey, nice shirt,” a woman says as she passes, pointing to the tiny Sweet Confessions logo on my chest. She’s flushed from a run, ponytail swinging. “We went yesterday. Those morning buns? Dangerous.”
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice sounds like it belongs to someone waiting for a verdict to come down.
She jogs on. I take another breath. Another. My palm is slick inside my pocket. The nausea backs off a step, then two, like it’s decided to hold off until later, when it can cripple me full force.
I look at Jason’s name again. I think of him as my big brother, dirt on his knees, a cowlick that refused to behave, the way he used to grin when he’d talked me into something I shouldn’t do.
I think of him as a teenager, going off to school with his shoulders squared, trying not to let it show that he’s on the verge of tears as he says goodbye.
I think of him helping in my shop just yesterday, a big grin on his face, pride in his eyes for his baby sister. My chest tightens so hard I have to swallow it down.
I lift my hand and knock before I can chicken out. Then I push the handle because if I have to wait for “come in,” I’m going to be sick right here in his immaculate hallway, and I don’t think any amount of ginger or crackers will stop it.
The door swings partway, heavy on its hinges, and I step into the cool of Jason’s office with my heart beating too loud.
I tap my knuckles lightly against the half-open door, then push it the rest of the way with my fingertips. “See?” I say, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile. “That’s called knocking.”
Jason looks up from his laptop. The scowl comes fast, like a reflex. “I’m busy,” he says. “Leave.”
The word hits me right in the gut, stealing my breath. Jason has never looked at me like that before. He’s never told me to leave. Jason has always had time for me, no matter what.
It makes me feel so much worse, but I step in anyway and swing the door closed behind me. The click is loud as hell in the silence.
Anger and hurt flash through his eyes so quickly it’s like lightning. He rounds the desk, jaw set, grabs the knob, and yanks the door back open. “Whatever you think you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it.”
“You’re going to hear it anyway,” I say, before my courage can bolt.
He turns on me so fast, the air feels thinner.
“You betrayed me.” His voice is low and hard. “My best friend—my brother—betrayed me.”
“I—”
“How long?” he bites out.
My mouth goes dry. “A few weeks.”
“A few weeks,” he repeats quietly, emotion vibrating through every word. “So this has been going on under my nose for a few weeks.”
“It isn’t like that,” I say, because it wasn’t. Not the way he’s framing it. “We haven’t been— It hasn’t been consistent.”
“Oh, so just occasionally,” he says, the sarcasm sharp as a knife. “That makes it better. Just go, Paige.”
“I’m not going until you hear it all.” My voice shakes, and I hate it, but I plant my feet anyway.
He pulls the door wider, holds it there, and says—forcefully, finally—“Get. Out. Now.”
“I’m pregnant,” I say.
The hallway sound—spin-class bass, blender whirr, low voices—rushes in and then disappears as he slowly swings the door shut.His hand stays on the knob for a second, like he isn’t sure it’s real. The latch catches with a soft, precise click.
He doesn’t move, and neither do I. The world narrows to the space surrounding us. The cool air does nothing to help my clammy hands.
“What?” he says, and it isn’t angry now. It’s flat, emotionless, dull.
“I’m pregnant,” I repeat, because there’s nothing else to do but say the thing again. “Almost eight weeks now.”
