“So what are you going to do now?” Tiffany asked, sipping at her blueberry tea.
“I don’t know—look for him, find him again. I did it once. I can probably do it again. And then I’ll go to him, apologize. I don’t know.”
Tiffany nodded, though she looked undecided.
“Alex, what if he doesn’t want to be found?”
I shrugged.
“I have to try. I’ll do whatever it takes; I’ll call the police, ask Russell Snow, anything. I’ll find him, Tiff. I have to.”
Tiffany nodded again, this time staying silent.
She didn’t say it, though I knew she wanted to: I’d set myself up on a fool’s errand.
After our tea was finished, Tiffany swept up and said, “Well, you have to stay here!”
When she was halfway to the door, she added, “That is, at least until we’ve got your restraining order and Charlie has cleared out.”
Curled up on the couch, I was too cozy to argue, too tired to say anything but, “All right. I’m just going to talk to him one last time first.”
Tiffany turned around and walked back over, her arms folded.
“That’s a bad idea, hon.”
I shrugged.
“I mean it, Tiff. I’ll stay here and I won’t take him back, but I need to talk to him one last time.”
“Okay,” Tiffany said, her arms still folded. It was written all over her face how bad of an idea she thought this was.
The next month was a flurry of doing. It was one desperate attempt after another to locate Brock.
I contacted every other private eye I could think of and pestered Kyle until, after the fifth time telling me the police had no new leads, he actually told me to “lay off it.” I even tentatively reached out to Russell Snow, whose eagerness at hearing from me evaporated once he realized that I needed information from him, not the other way around. So preoccupied was I with my hunt that I almost didn’t notice that my period hadn’t come. That was until Tiffany moaned at me from the bathroom to bring her the Tylenol. After I slipped the little red cylinder through the door, I took out my phone and flicked through my calendar.
November 1st, 8th, 15th…yeah, I should’ve had my period by now.
I shoved my phone in my pocket. Over my shoulder, I gazed into the Blue Room, at the black silk afghan. My period must just have been late.
A few days later, however, there were no more excuses. There was only a sick twist in my gut that chased me out of the house and straight to the drug store. Once there, I unobtrusively inched down the aisle to get what I needed. I scanned the options dully: one perky pink package, another aptly blue and pink box, the teal store brand. I snatched up the most expensive one to be sure the results would be accurate, and then beelined it to the cash register.
There, I handed the test along with my cash over to a makeup-caked cashier, who eyed my purchase with the charcoaled stare and half-smile of a woman who’d seen it all.
Then I rushed back to Tiffany’s.
I flew into the bathroom so fast that she could only manage a “hey, how’s it—” before I was gone.
After locking the door, taking a deep breath, and staring in the mirror at myself, I was ready.
I took the white piece of plastic out of the perky pink package and stared at it. One line meant I was fine, free. Nothing to worry about. Two lines, however, and my world was about to turn upside down.
Another deep breath and took the test, my body trembling. Then I washed my hands and waited. I kept the plastic white thing at the edge of the counter, out of my line of sight. Three minutes was how long I was supposed to wait, but I didn’t time it. I was going to wait until I felt comfortable checking it. The only problem was, the longer I waited, the less comfortable I felt.
By the time Tiffany knocked on the door and asked if I was okay, it had clearly been at least 10 minutes, and I was no more ready to check the results than I had been before.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” I said. Then I turned so I was looking at the innocuous little white stick.
I had to check. I couldn’t put it off any longer.
So, my hand shaking, I grabbed my pregnancy test, flipped it around, and gasped.
Two lines. Two very distinct, unmistakable pink lines. I was pregnant.
I chucked the thing at the mirror, grabbed the other one, and rushed back to the toilet. This attempt I timed out on my phone: three minutes, then two minutes, and then, finally, one. My shaking hand picked up the second test and flipped it round. I slumped to the floor.