Page 45 of A Song for Another Woman

“Four,” I whisper.

The silence after that isn't empty. It's packed tight with everything I haven’t allowed myself to count.

June exhales. “Okay.”

“No,” I say immediately.

“Emmy.”

“No. It can be stress. It can absolutely be stress. Women miss periods because of stress all the time. There are articles.”

“You looked up articles?”

I stare at the latch.

June’s voice softens. “Honey.”

That's what does it. Not the nausea. Not the missing days. Not the way my hands have started drifting to my stomach before I snatch them away.

Honey. A word small enough to fit through the crack I’ve been plastering over with work.

I open the stall door. June stands by the sink, her apron still on, her hair escaping its bun.

“I can’t,” I say. “If it is—” I stop. My throat closes around the rest.

June doesn't say anything. She just stands there, waiting for me to come to whatever conclusion I'm traveling toward.

“He can’t know.”

Her face changes then, but she doesn’t argue. Not yet. “Let’s find out if there's anything to know first.”

We drive to the Walmart outside town because Harmony Ridge has exactly one pharmacy, and Mrs. Jameson works the evening register with the alertness of a woman who can identify shame by brand and basket contents.

June drives. I sit in the passenger seat with my hood up and sunglasses on even though it’s nearly ten at night.

“You look very casual,” June says.

“I look invisible.”

“You look like you’re about to be on wanted posters plastered across the country.”

“Drive the car.”

The parking lot is bright, ugly, and blessedly anonymous. People push carts under white lights. A teenage employee wrangles baskets near the entrance. Somewhere, a child cries like the world has personally betrayed him.

June puts the car in park. “Stay here.”

“I can go in.”

“Sure. You can also announce it over the intercom.”

I sink lower in the seat. “Two tests.”

“Only two?”

“June.”

“Fine. Two. Water?”