Page 10 of Ruin The Friendship
The song ends, and Fletcher squeezes me tightly.
“Home?” I ask, squeezing him back.
“Home,” he answers, the slur even more prominent.
6
PANCAKES, POSITIVE TESTS, AND HAPPY TRAILS
LYDIA
EIGHT WEEKS PREGNANT
Getting a six foot three, two hundred and twenty pound man into bed on your own is hard work. Fletcher passed out on the drive home, and I practically had to drag him into the elevator and our apartment.
When he’s sprawled across his bed, I carefully take off his suit jacket and tie, and when I unbutton his crisp button-up, I expect to find an undershirt beneath it. Instead, I’m greeted by the bare expanse of his muscled chest.
I swallow thickly, ignoring the sudden swooping low in my belly. What’s with me? He’s just Fletcher. My best friend. I have never thought of him as anything else, so why are my eyes trailing down his stomach to the V-line of his hips andhis happy trail? Oh god.
Heat burns in my veins, and I focus on the task at hand, rolling him so he’s out of his shirt, leaving him in just his pants. As I’m covering him with the blankets, he murmurs something that I don’t catch.
“What?” I push his mussed hair out ofhis face.
“Lydia,” he breathes, a small smile tugging on his lips.
I freeze. My heart thrums like a hummingbird in my chest in anticipation.
“What?” I ask again, hoping he says something else.
He doesn’t. Instead, he rolls onto his stomach, pulling the blankets over his head and diminishing any hope of ever finding out what he was about to say.
I plug in his phone and slide out of his room, still trying to catch my breath. Anyone else probably would have left him, but I can’t help it. I want him to sleep well.
With that taken care of, I shift gears. I have important things to look at.
I head into my bathroom, shut the door, and open the top drawer where I threw the tests. The two pieces of plastic stare up at me, the answer on them glaringly obvious. One has a bright pink plus sign, while the other has a single word.
YES.
Grabbing the tests out of the drawer, I slump back against the wall, blood rushing through my ears. What if these are defective because they were sitting for so long? That has to be a thing, right? Maybe it’s a false positive.
I run into my room, grab the remaining tests from the floor, and return to the bathroom.
Three minutes later, I flip the tests over and swallow the giant lump of fear that’s settling in my throat.
I’m pregnant.
Do I want this? Do I want to be a mom? I could get an abortion, but when I think about it, I know that isn’t what I want. I watched my mom practically raise me on her own since my dad worked and traveled so much. He was never around, and it was hard on her, so I took years of subtle dig after dig from her. I know how much sheresented me. She never wanted kids, but my dad did. She could have been a stay-at-home wife, but I foiled all her plans.
I want this baby.
I want to prove I can be a better mom than my mother was, that I can love my child regardless of who or what they become.
Jude and I aren’t together, and I don’t want us to be. Do I want to co-parent with a man I barely know? Would he reply to a message if I text him? He ghosted me, after all.
I sink onto the bathroom floor. My head falls into my hands as I take deep, calming breaths.
I need sleep. I can’t do anything right now. It’s nearly one in the morning.
