“You have to make some kind of a plan if you are,” Becca insisted. “What are you going to do?”
“Pee on this stick, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, jogging out of the kitchen. “Can you get the green bean casserole started?”
“The green bean casserole is my specialty — don’t you even try to take credit for it!” Becca called after me as I dashed up the stairs.
I didn’t want to be pregnant. It would complicate everything — and just when things were going so well between Maxim and me. But I couldn’t ignore the symptoms. If this thing was negative, I was going to have to go to the doctor to figure out what was going on with my digestive system — and my mood swings.
The truth was that I was under a tremendous amount of stress, I consoled myself as I unwrapped the pregnancy test and glanced through the instructions. That could make anyone late on their period — or even explain away the symptoms I was feeling. Sure, I was loving the time I was spending with Maxim.
Maybe I was even in love with him.
But that didn’t mean that things weren’t stressful and confusing and fraught with emotions and meanings that I could only guess at.
All I wanted to do was mark this particular worry off my list so I could get back to worrying about the turkey and fixings and what my dad thought of my billionaire boyfriend.
Even if Max and I hadn’t quite been able to bring ourselves to say that in as many words. “Mine,” he’d told me, and I shuddered to remember my whispered “yours.”
Was possession a good enough foundation for a relationship? Obsession? Uncontrolled and unmitigated lust? Irresistible attraction?
My phone’s timer sounded, and I eyed the stick’s markings before consulting with the instructions to —
Wait.
That couldn’t be right.
I read the instructions again, and again, and again, and debated texting my driver and asking him to bring another to make sure this one wasn’t a mistake, because there was no way that I could be freaking pregnant.
With Maxim Volkov’s baby.
My heart hammered within my chest and I only dully registered the sound of my dad talking with Becca downstairs — not their words, just the rise and fall of their easy conversation. What was it like not to have anything to worry about? To tease and chat with someone like the world wasn’t about to end?
Because my world was about to end. I was pregnant. I didn’t need another test to tell me what I already knew. The lateness of my period. The way I’d been feeling and acting. I just didn’t understand what had happened. I was on birth control. Maxim had used protection.
All I knew was that nobody could find this. That no one could ever know.
I wrapped the test and its box up in some toilet paper and stuffed it down the waistband of my skirt. I’d use the first opportunity to go outside and drop it in the trash — no, the neighbor’s trash. That way, it couldn’t be traced back to this house. I’d get through tonight. I’d get through the internship. And then I’d … what? What would I do? What was I prepared to do?
What would Maxim do to me when he found out?
I steeled myself but didn’t dare look at myself in the mirror. I needed the cold tendrils of shock around me, cooling my emotions. I just needed to go downstairs, finish cooking the feast I’d promised everyone, and figure it out from there.
“There you are,” Becca breathed with relief as I tromped down the stairs. “We need to get the turkey ready so we can shove it in once the sweet potato casserole is ready.”
“The green bean casserole?” I asked numbly, trying to smile.
Becca cocked her head at me. “We do it on the stovetop, just like we do every year. Are you okay?”
“Did you forget and get a frozen turkey instead of one already thawed,” my dad asked with sympathy, because he’d done exactly the same thing a few years back. We’d had to give it a frantic water bath then coat parts of it in foil to ensure it cooked all the way through without burning.
“No, everything’s good,” I lied, testing the brightness of my voice. Too brittle, and I would break. I had to strike exactly the right balance to play this off. “Turkey is fresh, and it’s time to rub it in so much butter that everyone should be a little concerned.”
My dad continued regaling Becca with a story about a particularly pointed letter to the editor he’d gotten published while I got everything out I needed for the turkey. Becca elbowed me with a meaningful look, but I just shook my head. This wasn’t the time I wanted to get into everything. I needed to retreat from my emotions to keep everything in place. That was the only way I was going to get through this.
Having the turkey in the oven usually afforded me time to relax, but I didn’t allow myself to. I threw myself into cleaning bowls and trays and cutting boards, helping Becca with the table settings and centerpiece, and popping a couple of pies in the lower oven rack to cook during the last part for the turkey. Time management. That was all Thanksgiving was, and I found myself being more efficient than ever now that I had something I needed to focus away from.
The timer sounded for the turkey just as the doorbell rang, and I waved Becca away from the oven. “Go ahead and let them in,” I said. “It’s fine.” It was for the best, really. My dad had gone outside for another puff on his cigar.
“Did you seriously not tell your dad exactly who was coming to Thanksgiving?” Becca hissed at me. “And what was up with that test?”