I hold it out so we can both see.
I squint, but the gesture doesn’t change the outcome.
It’s negative.
I feel crushed. Devastated. Like I was handed a gift and then someone said, “Oh yeah, sorry, this isn’t for you. I need that back.”
“Blaire—”
His words come too late. I break down, a sob shaking my whole body.
“Blaire, I’m sorry.” He wraps me into his warm, strong, capable arms. He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll try again. We knew it probably wouldn’t happen the first time anyway.”
I try to tell him that I know, but I can’t seem to speak around my tears. I cry into his shirt, smearing mascara all over the blue cotton. I don’t even know why I’m so sad. I was more reserved about this than Ben. More time is a good thing, but it doesn’t feel that way. Suddenly, I feel fearful that it’s never going to happen. What if there’s something wrong with me? Or him? Or both of us?
“Hey, hey, none of that.” Ben forces me back and takes my face between his hands. “I know what you’re thinking and there’s nothing wrong. These things take time.”
I nod, but more tears come. “I really thought I was pregnant,” I confess on a hiccupping cry.
Ben pushes my hair away from my face. “I know, baby, I know. It’s okay, though. We’ll try again; that’s the best part, right?” he tries to joke, but I don’t feel like laughing. Or smiling.
I stare down at the white stick lying on the bathroom counter. I feel like it’s a bright neon light glaring at me, crying: You’re not pregnant. You’re a failure.
Ben wipes my tears off of my cheeks. He looks pained, and I feel bad. I’m completely breaking down and he’s trying to remain strong, even when he’s as bummed as I am. I lean forward, pressing my head into his solid chest, and hold on to the sides of his shirt. I’m not crying anymore, but I need to hold onto him a moment longer.
His arms wrap around me fully and he rests his chin on the top of my head. Neither of us says a word. We don’t need to.
Eventually, I pull away and lift my head to kiss him quickly.
“It’s going to happen,” he says with so much hope.
I hop off the counter and grab the pregnancy test to toss it, and the box, in the trashcan. It feels symbolic somehow.
“It will, Blaire.” He comes up behind me and hugs my back to his chest. “I know you’re still thinking all kinds of negative things, but it was only the first month.”
I know that our chances of getting pregnant are good, but I can’t shake this ominous cloud that seems to be forming above my head.
“It will,” I echo his words, but not with nearly as much conviction.
A week later I find myself standing on a podium in the dress shop for my final fitting. Casey and Ben’s mom are joining me. I wish my own mom was here for this moment, but at least she’ll be coming to the wedding next month.
February twentieth.
“That dress is so beautiful on you,” Loraine says, dabbing at her eyes.
“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” Casey adds. “Who let us become adults?”
I turn, admiring the dress in the mirror. It’s gorgeous—everything I ever imagined for my wedding dress. The top comes up high, with thin tank-top straps, but the dress is fitted all over with a small train. The dress is covered in lace detailing and the back boasts a million tiny white buttons—okay, so not a million, but a lot.
“I don’t know,” I speak to Casey, “it’s pretty weird.”
I haven’t told her that Ben and I are trying to have a baby. We haven’t told his mom, either. I think we both would rather surprise everyone if it happens. When. When it happens. I’m doing my best to think positive.
“Hold still,” the seamstress admonishes me.
“Sorry.” I’m careful not to move.
She finishes marking the places that need adjusting and then I change out of the dress and back into my regular clothes.
When I walk back into the main room, Casey is frowning at her phone.
“Ugh, I just got a work email, I have to go.” She hugs me. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” She waves at Loraine as she passes.
I pick up my purse and Loraine waits for me by the door.
We step out into the cold winter air. We’d had a mild winter, until the last week or so when Jack Frost decided we needed arctic temperatures.
Loraine loops her arm through mine and we walk down the street.
“Would you want to get lunch?” she asks, nodding at a small bistro-type place across the street.