Page 87 of Red Flagged
And now I was cramping again, bleeding and dizzied by the same dread.
It could still be nothing,I told myself. But honestly, I already knew.
My hands moved on their own, shutting the door and tearing the wrapper open. The sound of plastic split the silence like a scream, making me feel more alone than ever. I stood, pulled my leggings and panties down, and sat. The pee hit the stick, and then I laid it on the counter.
I reached for a tampon, already feeling the hot trickle leaking down the little braided tail of it. When I pulled the old one out, I froze. Blood soaked it, deep and dark and thick with clots. Not small ones. These were large, jelly-like, and unmistakable.
The kind you only saw once you knew.
I sat there, half-naked and trembling, staring at the evidence in my own hands.
No. No, no, no.
My body knew exactly how to kill its own hope.
I changed the tampon, feeling like I’d left myself somewhere outside my body. By the time I stood and turned toward the sink, my vision was narrowing to a tunnel.
The test was waiting, and there they were: two blue lines, bold and clear as day.
Positive.
The world tilted.
“This—” My voice broke. “This can’t?—”
The rest dissolved into a sound I didn’t recognize. A ragged sob ripped from somewhere low and primal, the kind that left my throat raw after. My legs gave out and I crumpled to the floor, clutching the counter with one hand and the test with the other. The tile pressed into my knees, cold and merciless.
Tears came hard and fast. Grief, anger, shame, disbelief—all of it surging at once, violent and unrelenting.
The IUD was supposed to protect me. I had doneeverythingright. How could this happen again?
And worse—how could I tell him? He’d been covered in this blood. He’d kissed me through it. He’d laughed with me through it. I lied through my fucking teeth after we just agreed to complete transparency. That we’d figure it out together. And I let myself believe it was just a flare-up. I let myself hide. And now… I knew what it really was.
The next sob that escaped me was nearly silent. I collapsed to my ass, legs sprawled beneath me like a broken marionette and curled forward, forehead to my knees, and let the waves hit until my throat burned and my chest heaved with nothing left to give.
“Aurélie?” The voice jolted me upright.Shit, it was one of the movers.
“Madame Dubois?” Another voice called out, closer this time. “We’re ready for the last box!”
I stared at the bathroom door, disoriented, the test still trembling in my hand.
“Coming!” My voice didn’t sound like me.
I scrambled to flush, wipe my face, and rinse my shaking hands under the faucet. My reflection was pale and red-eyed. I slipped the test into the pocket of my hoodie, stuffing all the thoughts and emotions into an overflowing corner in my mind.
By the time I opened the door, the smile was back in place. Aurélie Dubois, the woman who always kept it together.
But the truth was pressed against my womb in my pocket, pulsing in time with it. Two blue lines and all the love I may never get to give.
I carried the last box to the door, thanking the movers in perfect, polite French, as if I hadn’t just found my heart bleeding out in the bathroom. They didn’t notice anything strange, which meant I was doing a good job at pretending I was okay.
When the flat was finally empty, I stood in the doorway for a moment and stared inside. There wasn’t a single emotion that tied me to this place, so dropping the keys on the counter didn’t bother me in the slightest.
I turned and walked to my car. My fancy navy blue Alpine A110 gleamed in the dull light. It suited me. Or maybe, the version of me I used to think I had to be. But all I could think about was getting my hands back on my vintage Porsche 911, tucked safely in the family garage on the estate. I wantedto feel the grind of old mechanics beneath me again, to touch something real—something I rebuilt with my own two hands.
The drive from Paris to the southern countryside was like second nature at this point. My home life had always been lived in layers. This wasn’t just a road trip; it was a retracing of old patterns. A lifetime of drives from our estate outside Marseille to Paris for holidays, anniversaries, and galas.
Back then, I resented every kilometer of it. Now, it brought peace to the turmoil inside me.
