Golden Luckenbooth

Fourteen

"Who are you calling?" Blair asks after disposing of the positive pregnancy test.

Yes. Positive. That's what I said.

Do not ask me how I'm feeling.

Just don't.

"Harry." Biting my lip, I wonder what I'll say when he answers. But I don't have to worry about that because Blair rips the phone from my hands and disconnects the call. "What the fuck, B?"

"You can't call him yet. We need a plan. You need to know what you want to do."

I fish the positive pregnancy test from the bin, wrapping it in tissue and placing it in my pocket while Blair warily watches, likely thinking I've lost my mind. But you only get one first time at finding out you're pregnant, and I want to remember it. Or have proof. Either or both. Shaking my head at her, I reach for my device. "Give me my phone, Blair." I hold my hand out like a mother – uh, no – like I'm waiting patiently. Which I'm not. With a sigh, my bestie returns my phone, and I hit the button next to the number in his contact again, prepared to apologise for calling twice.

He doesn't answer, and the voicemail is generic, only telling me that I've reached the number and to leave a message. It's not even his voice. Which makes me anxious. Clearly I can't leave any personal information in case he's changed numbers since he was in Scotland.

"Uh, hi. Um, it's Dr. Anna McInroy." Blair raises her eyebrows at my message, but I barrel forward awkwardly. "Um, you and I met in Scotland. Shit. Um, I hate this. Would you call me please?"

"I thought the two of you were involved enough that you were on a first-name basis at least?"

"Shut up. My tongue got tangled when I realised it might not still be his number. I panicked."

"You think he changed his number after sleeping with you?" She narrows her eyes. "Jesus, Anna. Did you stalk him?"

"Fuck you, B." My glare would melt ice in Antarctica. "You can look at my phone history and my text messages. There's only the one 'here' that he sent when he got to London, and I thumbs-upped that one. We've not been in communication since. So no, I didn't 'stalk' him. He probably wishes more of his fuck buddies were like me."

"Pregnant?" She asks.

Rather than flipping her the bird, I burst into tears, covering my face with my hands. Blair pulls me into her arms while I sob into her shoulder. The emotions sweep through me. This wasn't the plan. I wasn't supposed to get pregnant until the practice was thriving, which would have been followed by a courtship and marriage to the perfect man who wants to stay right here in my tiny Scottish town. Forever. Then, and only then, I could get pregnant.

Not now.

My hiccups signal that my tears are slowing, and Blair pats me on the back as she whispers meaningless soothing sounds in my ear. Finally, fully spent, I wipe at my face, reaching for a tissue to blow my nose.

"Come on. I'll walk you home." Blair reaches for our coats and her handbag. "We can talk on the way. It will be good for you to get a little exercise."

Exiting the doctor's office, we stroll in the direction of my home. My practice. My dogs. My future.

Fuck.

"You don't have to go forward with it, you know," Blair comments, her shoulders hunched and her hands in her coat pockets. "It's not unheard of to have an abortion. And since you're only six weeks along –"

"Wait. What? How can I be six weeks?"

"We measure time from your last period."

"Oh yeah." Information I knew of course, but hadn't ever needed to apply to myself.