Chapter 9: The Moment I Knew
Y/N’s hands were shaking as she walked down the street.
The cool evening air should have helped.
It should have calmed her, soothed the panic clawing at her lungs.
Her hoodie felt too tight. Too constricting. She huffed out a shallow breath and yanked the zipper down halfway, desperate for air that still didn’t seem to make it all the way into her lungs.
Her mind wouldn’t shut up.
It’s fine. It’s probably fine she thought.
The lie echoed, thin and brittle, bouncing around in the back of her skull.
Her body had been acting weird for weeks. She’d told herself she was tired, that this semester had been extra stressful and that dealing with Bradley’s constant hovering were all starting to catch up with her.
But then she thought of the past few weeks.
She hadn’t put the pieces together but she was starting to now.
She remembered last week, stuck in front of the vending machine on the first floor of the library. She’d stood there with her backpack still hanging off one shoulder, staring blankly at the neon-wrapped candy bars and sad little bags of chips.
Nothing had looked appealing.
And then—out of nowhere—a visceral, clawing need for salt and vinegar chips overcame her.
She’d inhaled the whole packet in mere minutes, licking her fingers clean, sour burning her tongue and the back of her throat.
She normally hated salt and vinegar. Always had. It was Bradley’s favorite, not hers. She used to joke that it was proof something was fundamentally wrong with his taste buds.
She swallowed hard now, remembering.
Then she remembered that night with Jake.
The memory flared bright and clear.
His hands sliding up her sides, calloused fingers brushing under the hem of her shirt. The rough scrape of his palms against her ribs, the warm weight of his body pinning her to the couch cushions. The hum in his chest when she’d tangled her fingers in his hair. The familiar rush of anticipation—hot and dizzy and grounding all at once.
Then that sudden bolt of pain.
Sharp and unexpected, slicing through her chest like someone had taken a knife to her. It had stolen her breath, knocked a startled gasp out of her. She’d jerked back, hand flying to her chest.
He’d gone still immediately.
“Hey. Hey, sweetheart, talk to me.” His voice had gone quiet, that serious tone he almost never used. “Tell me where it hurts.”
She’d flushed, embarrassment crawling up her neck, heat prickling behind her eyes. She’d blamed it on sensitivity, on her period or hormones being weird.
Anything except the one answer that now sat heavy and obvious in the center of her chest.
Or that other night, what two, three weeks ago? When they’d been making out on her couch, his mouth had been hot and familiar on hers, his hand on the back of her neck, and out of nowhere, her stomach had lurched.
She’d had to pull away, pressing her fist against her lips, swallowing hard against the sudden threat of vomit. He’d huffed out a soft laugh, brushing his thumb across her cheek.
“Damn, Bradshaw,” he’d teased lightly. “Didn’t think my kissing was that bad.”
She’d laughed, they’d moved on.
Now it didn’t feel very funny at all.
Her legs felt unsteady as she walked, like her bones had been swapped out for jello.
You don’t know anything for sure yet she reminded herself.
She clung to that thought like a life raft in a storm.
But deep down, underneath all the denial and nervous laughter and “I’m just tired,”'s she knew.
She let her free hand fall to her stomach, fingers splayed over the cotton of her hoodie, like if she tried hard enough she could feel if anything inside her had changed.
If there was something- someone- growing there.
A fresh wave of panic surged through her, hot and dizzying,
She wasn’t ready for this.
She was only twenty-three
She was barely keeping up with her course load as it was—papers, labs, group projects, exams. She still had no idea what she was going to do with her life. She was still struggling balancing her social life with her academic one.
She was still just trying to figure out how to be a functioning human being.
Her stomach twisted sharply, muscles seizing under her hand.
What the hell was she going to tell Jake?
Her mind immediately conjured his face. The easy grin. The sharp green eyes that missed absolutely nothing when he was really paying attention. The dimple that only appeared when she caught him off guard with a sarcastic comment or dirty joke.
They weren’t even together. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.
They were just…whatever they were. Friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. Whatever you wanted to call it. They were messy and complicated and full of soft, stolen moments that never got talked about. Half-whispered jokes in the kitchen at parties, fingers laced under tables, late-night texts that somehow always ended with her in his bed or him in hers.
They were a secret from Bradley.
The thought of her brother—of his face if he ever found out—punched the air from her lungs. Bradley, who had always been there for her. Bradley, who looked at Jake like the brother he chose. Bradley, who would lose his actual mind if he knew what she’d been doing with his best friend behind closed doors.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers pressing harder into her stomach until it almost hurt.
Don’t think about that yet she told herself.
First she needed proof. Cold, undeniable proof that wasn’t just based on panic Googling or unexplained symptoms or the fact that her period was late—so late that she could no longer pretend she’d just miscounted days.
She cut across the empty parking lot and toward the corner where the gas station sat, glowing artificially bright due to the white lights from the large overhead sign.
She just had to go to the store.
Then, and only then, would she let herself unravel. Then, and only then, would she try and figure out what came next.
Y/N opened the gas station door, the bell overhead ringing cheerfully, oblivious to that fact that she was minutes away from finding out if her life was about to change forever.
The air inside the store felt wrong—stale and over-processed, like it had been filtered and refiltered and still somehow managed to not feel fresh. The white, bright florescent lights shone too sharply, stinging her eyes.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she stepped between the narrow aisles, the linoleum floor squeaking faintly under her shoes.
Where the hell were the pregnancy tests ???
The idea of walking up to the counter, of forming the words in her mouth, of seeing the look on some stranger’s face—pity or judgment or god forbid joy—made her skin crawl. She kept her head down and moved faster, scanning the disorganized shelves for anything that might mean she was in the right area.
Condoms. She reasoned there would be condoms. And near condoms, somewhere, there had to be—
What if they didn’t even sell them here?
The thought shot through her, electric and cruel, and for a second she stood frozen in the middle of the medicine aisle, some pop song crackling over the tinny speaker.
It wasn't a big display. There was no obvious section. Just a small, dusty patch of shelf at the very end of the aisle, almost hidden behind a mountain of cough syrup. There were a few different brands of pregnancy tests, the colors of the boxes slightly faded.
Her hand rose, slow and clumsy, like it belonged to someone else.
She grabbed the first test her fingers closed around, shoving it into the crook of her arm. Then panic clawed higher, insistent and irrational.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she snatched a second box. A different brand. Just in case.
She turned quickly, the sudden movement sending her colliding into something solid.
She jolted backward, the boxes clutched tight against her chest, almost tumbling from her hands. An older man in a faded work jacket stared back at her, one gloved hand hovering over a shelf of cough drops.
“Sorry,” she muttered, voice paper-thin, not really looking at him. She hugged the tests closer, like she could physically hide them against her body, and speed-walked down the aisle without waiting for a response.
Her feet carried her straight to the register.
The kid behind the counter couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Shaggy brown hair fell over one eye, a pimple bright and angry on his chin. He was chewing gum like he was bored out of his mind, jaw working in slow, exaggerated motions.
He didn’t look up right away, fingers lazily tapping at his phone when she approached. Only when she dropped the boxes onto the counter did he stop typing.
His gaze snapped up to her face when he saw what she was purchasing.
Y/N felt her skin scorch, heat flooding up from her chest to the tips of her ears. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the faint beep of the scanner.
“Long night?” he asked, faux-casual, letting the implication hang there, heavy and obvious.
Her grip tightened on the edge of the counter, fingernails biting into cheap laminate. For a wild second, she imagined snapping something back—some sharp, cutting comment that would wipe the smug look off his face. She had plenty. Years of verbal sparring with Bradley had given her a full arsenal.
But she didn’t have the energy for it.
“Just ring me up,” she said instead, every word clipped, her gaze fixed firmly on some indeterminate spot on the far wall.
He let out a low, impressed-sounding whistle under his breath, but, thankfully, didn’t push it further. The scanner beeped again, and a second later, he cleared his throat.
“Twenty-three fifty,” he said. “Card or cash?”
She shoved her card into the reader without looking at the total, her hands clumsy. The machine blinked, processing, taking far too long.
Approved flashed across the little screen.
She yanked her card out and snatched the bag as soon as it hit the counter, the thin plastic crinkling loudly in her shaking hand.
“Hey,” the cashier called after her as she turned away his voice adopting a mocking tone. “Good luck with that.”
She didn't even look back.
She pushed through the glass door, the bells dangling above it jangling again and stumbled into the thick warmth of the night.
Her heart thudded against her ribs, hard and fast.
There was a bathroom here. She knew there was. Around the side of the building, near the ice machine and the dumpster. She’d used it once last semester when she’d been walking home drunk from a party and couldn’t hold it.
She knew it would be gross now.
Her legs carried her automatically around the corner of the building, sneakers crunching over broken glass and gravel.
Y/N’s stomach swooped uneasily as she reached out and jiggled the handle.
She bounced on her heels, energy buzzing under her skin with nowhere to go. The plastic bag in her fist crackled.
She knocked again, harder this time, knuckles stinging as they connected with wood. She couldn't wait anymore.
Finally, the ancient plumbing groaned to life. The muted rush of water sounded through the thin door, then the hollow, echoing flush of a toilet. A few more seconds, then the lock clicked, and the door swung inward.
A middle-aged woman in blue medical scrubs stepped out, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun, tired eyes shooting Y/N a dirty look.
“Thanks,” Y/N muttered not really meaning it, as she squeezed past and slipped inside, dragging the door shut behind her.
She flipped the lock with a shaking thumb.
The bolt thunked into place with a dull, final sound.
The bathroom was disgusting.
Worse than she remembered.
The floor was sticky under her shoes, the mirror above the sink was spotted and cloudy, streaked with water marks and fingerprints. The air smelled like bleach failing to cover the smell of urine. Someone had scratched Derek is a liar into the metal of the paper towel dispenser, each letter deep and angry, the grooves darkened with time and grime.
She didn’t care about the filth.
Didn’t care about the smell.
Didn’t care about the sticky floor or the scratched metal or the fact that the single overhead bulb flickered ominously every few seconds.
Her world had narrowed down to the thin plastic bag cutting into her fist.
Her hands shook as she pulled out the first test, ripping the cardboard box open.
She knew how this worked.
She’d never had to take one before, but she knew. Friends had. Girls in high school bathrooms had.
Pee on the stick. Wait a few minutes. Look.
Her throat felt tight, breath trapped behind her ribs.
She fumbled her way through, heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might ricochet off the inside of her chest and crack her sternum. Her fingers didn’t seem to obey her brain, clumsy and numb.
When it was finally done, she set the test carefully on the back of the toilet tank and stepped away, like it was a wild animal that might bite if she got too close.
Five minutes that felt like forever.
She pressed her back against the door and fished her phone out of her pocket with trembling fingers, setting a five-minute timer.
Each second that ticked by after that landed like a hammer blow inside her skull, reverberating through her whole body.
The thought sliced through her, sharp and clear.
Her chest tightened until it hurt, a band of pressure cinching around her lungs.
She rested the back of her head against the door and closed her eyes.
Inhaled shakily through her nose.
Exhaled through her mouth.
Her life could change in the next sixty seconds.
The word echoed through her. Foreign, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Someone older. Someone with a plan.
She wasn’t ready for that.
She wasn't ready for any of this.
Her phone vibrated in her hand.
Y/N exhaled, the sound shaky and thin.
Her hand hovered in the air for a second, suspended, then finally—finally—closed around the plastic stick.
Her fingers trembled so badly she almost dropped it.
She swallowed hard, her stomach rolling.
Then she flipped the test over.
Clear. Bright. Unmistakable.
Her breath stuttered, breaking on its way out.
The world tilted sharply, the walls seeming to lurch closer, the ceiling dipping, the small space shrinking around her. Something high and keening built in her throat, and before she could swallow it down—before she could shove it back behind her teeth where everything else was stuffed—a choked sob ripped free.
Tears burned hot tracks down her cheeks, spilling faster than she could blink them away.
She slid down the door, landing on the floor and curling in on herself, not caring how disgusting and dirty the floor was. She pressed her forehead to her knees, one hand still wrapped around the test so tightly her fingers ached. Her shoulders shook with the effort of keeping quiet, of not letting the sound escape and echo in the grimy little room.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This wasn’t part of the vague, half-formed plan she had for her life. Graduate. Get a job. Maybe move near the coast. Maybe get a place with windows that didn’t get stuck in the cold of winter, and a kitchen that was bigger than a postage stamp. Maybe, someday, find someone who wanted the same things she did and do it right.
Not pregnant in a gas station bathroom at twenty-three with her brother’s best friend’s baby.
But the two pink lines on the pregnancy test in her hand didn’t care what she had planned. Didn’t care that she was still in school or that her bank account balance made her anxious every time she checked it or that her relationship with the father of this baby didn’t have a name.
And she had no idea what she was going to do.
