Page 65 of The Hard Hitter
My legs are shaky as I enter my house, and I’m grateful Zander isn’t here to see what I’m about to do. I try to quiet my racing thoughts, but my efforts prove futile.
What if the results are positive?
My vision fades, and I sink against the wall. After everything Zander said to me, everything I said to him, would he think I’m trying to trap him, or I used his sperm to have my own baby without his permission? Dear God, I can’t be pregnant. I just can’t be! That would ruin everything that’s been growing between Zander and me. Right?
Making my way to the bathroom, I tear into the package and read the instructions. Simple enough. I just pee on the stick and wait two minutes. I take down my pants and follow the instructions. Once done, I place the stick on the edge of the counter, pull up my pants and wash my hands. I pace the small bathroom, two steps one way, two steps back, and keep my eye on my phone.
My God, this is the slowest two minutes in my life.
My stomach cramps again, and as I brace my hands on the wall, the front door opens.
Oh, God no!
“Hey Sam, I grabbed the caulking to fix the tub.” When I don’t answer, heavy footsteps sound in the hall. “Sam?”
“I’m in here,” I call out, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as hysterical as I feel. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I see the shadow of his feet underneath the door. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low, close to the door.
“Sure,” I lie. The truth is, I want to be pregnant with Zander’s baby as much as I don’t want to be. I love him, love his daughter, and if I’m going to bring life into this world, I don’t want to use a donor in a sterile clinic. I want the child to come from love.
Zander continues down the hall, and the back door opens. He must have gone out in to the yard. My phone passes the two-minute mark, and I still can’t quite bring myself to look.
Do it already, Sam.
I suck in a fast breath, close my eyes and turn.
When I open them again, the bottom falls out of my world.
“What the fuck, Sam?” Zander suddenly says from outside the locked bathroom door. He rattles the knob, hard. “When the fuck were you going to tell me?”
My heart is pounding, tears beating against the back of my eyes. How the hell does he know? I’m in here behind a locked door!
“Say something,” he demands.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, my voice as shaky as my body.
“When?”
“I just found out.”
“You just found out?” his anger reaches out to me, curls around my heart and squeezes until it I can’t seem to breathe. “You must have applied months ago!”
Applied months ago?
“All this time, you knew you might be leaving for Houston and didn’t think it was importan
t to tell me?”
Houston.
Relief washes through me.
Eager to set him straight, that I applied ages ago and have no intention of going, I pull open the door. “I’m not—” I begin.
But his angry gaze drops from my face—to the stick I’m holding in my hand.
Oh, shit.