Chapter 127 The Signs

Chapter 127 The Signs
Chapter Twenty-Eight

Cade

The first time I throw up before work, I blame the coffee.

The second time, I blame the eggs.

The third time, I stop pretending my body is being subtle.

I kneel on the bathroom floor with one hand braced against the tub and the other pressed to my stomach.

The tile is cold through my pajama pants.

My breathing sounds too loud in the small room.

Behind the closed door, the house is quiet.

Jordan hasn’t woken yet.

Thank God.

I remain there long after the nausea passes.

My reflection in the side of the bathtub faucet is distorted, but I can still see enough.

Pale skin.

Tired eyes.

Fear.

“No.”

The word slips out softly.

I sit back against the cabinet.

No.

It could be a virus.

Viruses last.

Stress affects digestion.

Exhaustion causes nausea.

There are dozens of explanations.

Pregnancy is only one of them.

The most obvious one.

The possibility I’ve avoided for nearly two weeks.

I know the signs.

Of course I do.

The smell sensitivity.

The exhaustion.

The sudden aversion to foods I’ve eaten for years.

The headaches.

The nausea arriving most often in the morning, but not limiting itself to morning.

I know all of it.

I was fifteen the last time.

Terrified.

Abandoned.

Alone in a way I didn’t know a person could be alone.

But I remember.

My body remembers too.

I place a hand over my abdomen.

Nothing feels different.

There is no movement.

No outward sign.

Just the quiet possibility of a life beginning beneath my palm.

An extension of Charlie.

The thought sends another wave through me, though this one has nothing to do with nausea.

I close my eyes.

It has been weeks since I told him to leave.

Weeks since I admitted I wanted him.

Weeks since I failed to do anything about it.

And now this.

If it’s true.

I’m not ready.

The thought comes instantly.

Then another follows.

I don’t want it to be false.

My eyes open.

The realization frightens me more than the possibility itself.

I want this baby.

I haven’t taken a test.

I haven’t spoken to a doctor.

I don’t know anything for certain.

Yet the idea of being wrong creates a sharp ache beneath my ribs.

I cover my face with both hands.

“This is a disaster.”

A knock sounds at the door.

“Dad?”

I freeze. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Jordan is quiet for a moment. “You’ve been in there a while.”

“I’m getting ready.”

“For work?”

“Yes.”

“You threw up.”

I close my eyes.

Apparently, I wasn’t as quiet as I thought.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

“You sound annoyed.”

“I’m sitting on a bathroom floor at six in the morning while you question me through the door.”

“Fair.”

His footsteps retreat.

I remain where I am for another minute.

Then I force myself up.

I shower.

Dress.

Brush my teeth twice.

By the time I leave for school, my face looks normal enough to pass.

The day isn’t kind.

The cafeteria serves scrambled eggs for breakfast, and the smell reaches my hallway before the first bell.

I make it into my classroom, drop my bag, and immediately open both windows.

Cold air floods the room.

One of my students arrives ten minutes later and looks around.

“Mr. Cade, why is it freezing?”

“Fresh air.”

“It’s snowing.”

“I’m aware.”

By nine, I regret coming to work.

By ten, I’ve nearly fallen asleep at my desk while the students complete independent reading.

By eleven, the dry-erase markers smell so strongly that I switch to the document camera and use paper instead.

At lunch, I sit in the teachers’ lounge with a container of soup untouched in front of me.

Melissa, who teaches third grade, sits across from me.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean medically.”

“That improves it.”

She opens a yogurt.

The smell makes my stomach turn.

I push my soup farther away.

Melissa pauses. “Are you sick?”

“Apparently everyone’s decided I am.”

“You’ve been pale for days.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“That is what I said.”

She studies me.

Her gaze drops to the food.

Then returns to my face.

A strange expression flickers across hers.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Melissa.”

She hesitates.

Then smiles carefully. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

The room goes silent.

Not literally.

Someone at the copier curses under their breath.

The refrigerator hums.

Two teachers debate whether indoor recess should include tablets.

But inside me, everything stops.

Melissa laughs awkwardly. “I’m kidding.”

I force a smile. “Obviously.”

“Sorry. Bad joke.”

“It’s fine.”

She turns to her yogurt.

I stare at the lid of my soup container.

My hands have gone cold.

The rest of the day passes in pieces.

I remember teaching something about equivalent fractions.

I remember tying a child’s shoelace because he insisted the knot was plotting against him.

I remember standing near the buses during dismissal while snow blew sideways across the parking lot.

I don’t remember deciding to stop at the pharmacy.

Yet there I am.

Standing in the family planning aisle with my coat still buttoned and my school bag hanging from one shoulder.

Rows of boxes stare back at me.

Different brands.

Different promises.

Early results.

Digital results.

Two tests.

Three tests.

Five.

I pick up one.

Put it back.

Pick up another.

A woman enters the aisle pushing a cart.

I step aside too quickly and nearly knock over a display of vitamins.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

She doesn’t care.

Why would she?

To her, I’m only a man buying a pregnancy test.

There is nothing unusual about that in our world.

Nothing worth noticing.

To me, the box weighs more than it should.

I choose three different brands.

Redundancy feels sensible.

Or desperate.

At self-checkout, every beep sounds deafening.

Pregnancy test.

Pregnancy test.

Pregnancy test.

A teenager working nearby glances over only because the machine announces that I need assistance for a coupon error.

My face burns.

He taps the screen, clears the error, and walks away.

No judgment.

No curiosity.

I wish I could borrow his indifference.

At home, I leave the bag inside my coat pocket.

Jordan is in the living room.

“You’re late.”

“I stopped at the store.”

“For what?”

“Things.”

He looks over the back of the couch.

“What things?”

“Toothpaste.”

The lie comes too easily.

“Did we need toothpaste?”

“Yes.”

He accepts that.

I go upstairs.

Lock the bathroom door.

Set the three boxes on the counter.

For several minutes, I only look at them.

Taking the tests won’t change the truth.

It’ll only reveal it.

My hands shake as I open the first box.

I follow the instructions.

Then the second.

Then the third.

I line them up on the counter and set a timer.

Three minutes.

The longest three minutes of my life.

I pace once around the bathroom.

Sit on the closed toilet.

Stand again.

Don’t look.

Look.

The first test changes before the timer finishes.

Positive.

My breath catches.

The second follows.

Positive.

The digital screen on the third blinks.

A small hourglass icon.

Waiting.

Thinking.

Deciding my entire future in silent black pixels.

Then the word appears.

Pregnant.

I grip the sink.

The bathroom tilts.

“No.”

Not denial.

Shock.

A sound escapes me.

Half laugh.

Half sob.

I lower myself to the floor before my knees give out.

Pregnant.

Charlie’s baby.

Our baby.

My hand finds my stomach again.

This time, the gesture feels different.

Intentional.

Protective.

Terrified.

I think of Jordan.

Fifteen-year-old me.

The alpha who promised everything and disappeared the moment responsibility became real.

Then I think of Charlie standing in my bedroom, hurt in his eyes, asking me to stop making every decision based on everyone except myself.

Charlie would come.

The certainty enters quietly.

He wouldn’t run.

He’d disappeared once, but he came back.

He apologized.

He stayed until I forced him out.

Still, fear whispers.

People make promises before babies become real.

People say forever before forever demands anything.

I know that too well.

Tears slide down my face.

I don’t wipe them away.

I’m scared.

I’m happy.

I’m angry that happiness is here at all because it makes the fear sharper.

I want Charlie.

I want this child.

I want a future I’ve spent weeks convincing myself I can’t have.

The truth is finally impossible to avoid.

I sit on the bathroom floor until my legs go numb.

The tests remain lined up above me.

Three answers.

All the same.

Eventually, there is a knock. “Dad?”

Jordan again.

I look toward the door. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been in there forever.”

“I know.”

“You okay?”

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

“I’ll be out soon.”

“Okay.”

His footsteps fade.

I look at the tests one more time.

I need to tell him.

I need to tell Charlie.

The order matters, though I am not certain why.

Jordan deserves to hear it from me.

Charlie does too.

I gather the tests and place them back inside the pharmacy bag.

Then I hide the bag beneath the sink like I am fifteen again and terrified someone will discover the life growing inside me.

The parallel makes me flinch.

I’m not fifteen.

I’m not alone.

I repeat both facts silently until my breathing steadies.

But I don’t tell anyone that night.

I make dinner.

I sit across from Jordan.

I nod while he tells me a story I barely follow.

I go to bed early.

In the dark, my hand rests over my stomach.

Somewhere between fear and exhaustion, I whisper the truth aloud.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room doesn’t change.

The world does.