“How late are you?” he asks.
“A week and a half.”
“That’s not much.”
“I’m pretty regular. I didn’t think of it with getting fired and starting the job search again, but when I realized the date…”
We look at each other. The silence is weighty.
“The condoms haven’t broken or anything,” I finally say.
“They don’t have to. And I’m not always wearing one when I come.”
“You’re not inside me then either.”
“I don’t necessarily have to be, if it’s close enough.” He stands, fastening the top button of his jeans. “I’ll run to the drugstore and get a pregnancy test.”
“Wouldn’t it be too soon to register?”
“Won’t hurt to take one.” He pulls on his shoes, grabs his keys, and heads out.
I press a hand to my stomach again. We’ve been careful about condom use. Even during my brief, nausea-inducing attempts to take the pill, Dean wore a condom when we had sex. I told him before we got married that I didn’t want to have children. He understood why and has never tried to convince me otherwise.
I pace to the window and stare down at the street. A group of teenagers passes by, laughing as they head down the path toward the lake. A couple with two kids goes into an ice-cream shop. An older man shuffles past, led by a leashed dog.
After about fifteen minutes, the door clicks open. Dean hands me a paper bag. I peer inside at the boxed pregnancy test.
“Says it can detect results six days after a missed period,” he says.
“Guess I should go take it, then.” I glance at him. Why is his expression so unreadable? “What if it’s positive?”
“Then we’ll talk.” He squeezes my shoulder, then tilts his head toward the bedroom. “Go ahead.”
I go into the bathroom and close the door. There are two tests inside the box. I take one out and put the box in the cabinet beneath the sink. My hands shake as I peel a plastic test stick from the foil wrapper and unfold the instructions.
It’s pretty straightforward, and because I’m so nervous I need to pee anyway. After I’m done, I cap the stick and put it on the counter.
Three minutes, the instructions say. I try not to look at the results window, but end up staring at it like it’s a crystal ball. A faint pink line appears. My heart thuds.
Two lines mean positive.
I keep staring. The single line darkens.
One line. Not two.
My heart is still pounding hard.
“Liv?”
I take a breath and crumple up the empty foil and instructions. After tossing them in the trash, I open the door. “Negative.”
Relief flashes across his face. “Good.”
Good?
I check the test again. Definitely one line. I throw it in the trash and dust off my hands. “Well, that was something, huh?”
I push past Dean, feeling his gaze on me as I go into the kitchen. I pull a frozen pizza from the freezer and turn on the oven.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand settles warm and heavy on the back of my neck. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
But I’m not entirely sure that I am, and I don’t understand why.
I take a long walk through town this morning. Dean’s usually the one up at dawn, but the morning after taking the pregnancy test, I wake before him. Can’t remember the last time that happened. I dress in sweatpants and tennis shoes, pulling on a fleece jacket as I head downstairs.
I’ve never gone for a walk when most of the town is still asleep, but I like the stillness, the reddish light of dawn skimming over the lake, the burgeoning chirp of birds. I also feel relatively safe, though I stick to the downtown area where lights shine in a few of the houses, bed-and-breakfasts, and bakeries.
I walk down Avalon, turning onto Emerald and Ruby Streets, and then back around the block to Avalon again. I increase my pace, enjoying the flex of my muscles, the brisk air filling my lungs.
Negative. That’s what I was hoping for, right?
I’ve never wanted kids. I’m not maternal. The shit-storm of my childhood was enough to put me off people in general, so it’s a wonder I’m even married.
I’m almost thirty years old, and in my entire life Dean has been the only man I’ve trusted with bone-deep certainty. He’s the only person I’ve ever really loved. We’ve built a life together—a lovely, normal, secure life.
I’m happy with just the two of us. I don’t want a baby.
I stop and look in the dimly lit window of a baby boutique shop. Cute, overpriced clothes, hats, puzzles, blankets, and a few things I can’t quite identify.
I remember a baby I once knew. I haven’t thought of her in years. Penny. Round face, long eyelashes, fuzzy tufts of blond hair. I was thirteen and took care of her on occasion when her mother had something to do.
Penny was almost a year old then. She must be sixteen now. Probably driving. I wonder if she’s had her first date, what her favorite subject is, if she plays sports or likes to read. I hope she’s happy.