“No jackpot! No buckets! No swimmers! I am not pregnant!”
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” Cece says with the smile of an angel.
“Stop quoting Gandhi all the time. It doesn’t apply here!” I push past her and shut the door in their faces.
With shaking hands, I pull up my cropped shirt and rub my hand over my concave stomach. At least that’s good—I mean not good that I seem to be losing weight like crazy but good that there’s no baby bump. When do baby bumps show up? I have no clue.
I unwrap the first test, read the directions, pee on one stick, and then do two more.
Edward and I talked about kids—well, he did. When his mother brought up grandkids, I just nodded and smiled.
I sit on the closed toilet and rub my forehead.
My own story begins by being left on the steps of a police station in the snow in a small town in Upstate New York. All I had with me was a car seat, a blanket, and a locket engraved on the back with “Francesca.”
I picture a woman leaving me.
Did she cry?
Why did she never come back?
Does she ever wonder about me?
The police ran a story about me on TV. They put my story on a billboard. They searched records for babies born as Francesca; they searched for birthing mothers named Francesca—and got nothing that matched.
My parents abandoned me.
With that kind of baggage, am I even mother material?
I shove it aside and stand.
I’ve barely gotten my joggers up when they spill through the door.
“I’m surprised you didn’t insist on watching me pee.”
“Didn’t want to interrupt the flow,” Cece calls as she races to the sink, where I put the tests.
Brogan snatches one first. “Nothing yet—”
“Gross! That has pee on it,” I call out.
“I work at Decadence. Pretty sure I’ve touched pee before.” He stares down at the stick as if it’s the Holy Grail.
Ignoring them, I grumble as I get to the mirror, brush my hair, and sweep it into a high ponytail. My cheekbones are stark, the hollows beneath clearly defined on my pale face. I take off my glasses and stare into my eyes as a cold sweat breaks out over my skin. Fear curls over me, and I dash out of the bathroom and go back to the den so I can’t hear them talking. I flip on the TV, loud, then pop another Triscuit in my mouth. “See. No nausea,” I say to myself. “No baby bump.Notpregnant.”
My phone pings, and I pull it out of my bag. More texts from Edward. My hands curl.
See me.
Talk to me.
Francesca.
Come on.
I’m begging.
Sorry.