Chapter 4
I beat her home by seven minutes. Pulled into parking lot behind our building, killed engine, sat with headlights off. Apartment windows dark. No lamp left on. I hadn't left one.
Key stuck a second in lock. Cold air inside. Heat hadn't kicked on. I flipped kitchen switch. White light buzzed overhead, harsh after string lights at Whitaker ballroom.
Pharmacy bag sat on counter. White plastic, handles knotted. Not hidden. Just left there, next to coffee maker. Like something meant to be found, or forgotten after long day.
I didn't touch it at first. Hung blazer on chair back. Set keys down slow. Hands didn't shake. That surprised me.
Bag crinkled when I lifted it. Light inside. Prenatal vitamins, big brown bottle, seal unbroken. Folate supplement beside it. Folded receipt taped to side.
I pulled receipt. CVS on Main. Timestamp printed: 10/28 4:32 PM. Two days ago. Before gala. Cashier initials, card ending in my numbers? No. Hers. Debit.
Lauren took test days before Ethan opened mouth. Bought vitamins before anyone spoke.
Door opened then. Her heels on mat, soft. She'd changed shoes in car. I heard stocking feet on wood.
She came into kitchen, still in blue dress, coat over arm. Silver bracelet caught light. She saw bag in my hand. Saw bottle on counter. Froze mid-step.
We didn't speak for three breaths. Fridge hummed loud.
"You went through my things," she said. Voice flat, not loud.
"Bag sat on counter," I said. "Light on. Nothing hidden."
She didn't move closer. Put coat on back of chair, careful, like noise would break something.
"When did you buy these?" I said.
She swallowed. Hands went to elbows, crossed tight.
"Tuesday," she said.
"Test before that?"
She nodded once.
"Where is it?"
She shook head. "Trash Tuesday night. I didn't keep it."
I set receipt down, smoothed it with palm. "Why vitamins if you don't know?"
"Because I had to do something," she said. "I couldn't just wait."
That landed heavier than shouting. Her eyes stayed on bottle, not me.
I stepped aside, gave space. Not kindness. Need for clear answer.
"Have you seen doctor?" I said.
"No."
"Have you scheduled?"
"No."
Second silence longer. She stared at vitamins like they might answer for her.
"Show me photo," I said. "You took photo of test, right? Everyone does."
She flinched. That told me yes.
"Please don't ask that," she said.
"Lauren. I need truth before anything else."
"I took it alone," she said. "Bathroom upstairs at work. Two lines, fast. I panicked. Took photo then deleted it. I didn't want him to see it on cloud. I didn't want you to see it like that either."
Him. Ethan. Name slipped out without me asking.
She covered mouth with hand, same gesture as gala. Knuckles white.
"Why delete?" I said. Quiet, not sharp.
"Because I thought if I kept it, it became real before I understood it," she said. "And I don't understand it yet."
I picked up bottle, read label. Daily, with food. Doctor recommended. Unopened meant she hadn't started. Bought but not taken. Another pause.
"You haven't taken any?" I said.
She shook head again. "Couldn't. Felt like choosing before I knew."
I set bottle down exactly where I'd found it. Receipt beside it. Didn't push either toward her.
"So pregnancy real, paternity not," I said.
She closed eyes. "Yes."
"And you haven't let doctor confirm?"
"No."
"Will you?"
Her breath caught. She looked at me finally, direct.
"I will," she said. "But not tonight. I can't tonight."
I nodded. That was answer, not evasion. First honest one since gala.
She stepped finally to counter, didn't touch bag. Rested hands flat on laminate, head dropped.
"Don't tell your mom yet," she whispered. "Please."
May you like
I didn't promise. Didn't refuse. Left receipt where light hit it.
We stood in harsh kitchen light, prenatal vitamins between us, unopened, timestamp proof we both now acknowledged what was inside her before doctor did.
