href="#u63664e9e-6ee5-54a7-aa1c-bb33028d5cef">Dedication
Rebekah Taylor stared at the pregnancy test in her hand. How could it be positive? They’d used protection, one of the condoms she’d gotten as a gag gift from a friend’s bachelorette party a couple of years ago. Sure, the thing had been an embarrassing shade of glittery pink, but it should have worked in the heat of the moment.
Except it hadn’t.
Had the condom expired? Rebekah glanced at the reflection of her wide, panic-filled eyes in the mirrored medicine cabinet. Every six months she methodically went through all her kitchen and bathroom cupboards and threw out everything that was even close to its expiration date.
How had she missed something as important as this? Sighing, she slouched lower on the toilet seat. Probably because she’d hidden the little heart-shaped box in a back corner of her nightstand drawer, where it was out of sight and out of mind. It probably would’ve stayed in its hiding spot indefinitely if she hadn’t been so desperate.
And so lonely.
Although, at least she’d had a condom to start with, unlike the carefree Grant Whitaker, who’d come to her house unprepared for a one-night stand eight weeks ago. Not that either one of them had been expecting things to get physical that night.
In fact, Rebekah hadn’t been able to stand the guy the first few times he’d visited Spring Forest, North Carolina. Flying in from Florida in his board shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops every couple of months, he looked more like a surf instructor than any kind of business professional.
And the weird thing was, for such a relaxed-looking guy, he’d always watched Rebekah like a hawk. She was the director of Furever Paws, his elderly aunts’ nonprofit organization, yet he constantly kept his eye on her—as though he expected she would stuff her pockets full of dog biscuits and sneak them into the puppy kennels if his back was turned. Of course, he was pretty much like that with everyone who worked at the shelter. Everyone who wasn’t family, at least. The guy was undoubtedly protective of his relatives.
“Nobody would mistake you for being a part of the Whitaker family,” she told her reflection. As a biracial woman with an African American mother and an Irish American father, Rebekah’s deep bronze skin and black, springy curls were a stark contrast to Grant’s lighter, sun-kissed complexion and wavy blond hair. Would their baby favor one of them over the other? Or would their child be blessed with the best of both gene sets. “Stop it!” she commanded herself. She’d barely known about the pregnancy for three minutes and already she was letting her emotions overrule her logic.
Maybe that first test was just a dud. Rebekah frantically tore open another package, this time from the manufacturer that promised a plus sign instead of two striped lines. Ten minutes later, though, the result was the same.
She would’ve sunk to her knees right there in her brand-new townhome and curled herself into a little ball if she’d thought it would help. But grown women with mortgages and MBAs and lead positions at nonprofits didn’t break down and cry every time something went wrong.
They examined the problem, researched solutions and made lists of what to do next. Taking out a pad of paper she wrote down, 1. Make doctor appointment. She got as far as writing the number 2 on her to-do list, but then couldn’t think of what she should do next.
Tell Grant?
A tremor shook through her at the thought of how that conversation might go. The man would probably react in one of two ways. He might say, “Right on,” and then eventually forget about her and their kid because they didn’t fit with his bachelor lifestyle. Or he might accuse her of getting pregnant on purpose to trap him—just like Trey once had.
There really wasn’t any sense in doing anything until she’d confirmed things with the doctor. Crumpling the list in her hand, she tossed it into the wastebasket, right on top of the pink-and-blue boxes.
Walking to the kitchen, she flipped on her coffee machine out of habit before remembering that pregnant women were supposed to limit their caffeine intake. A tic started at her temple and Rebekah wondered how she could possibly give up coffee for nine whole months.
Wait. Longer if she decided to breastfeed.
Her cell phone pinged behind her and she turned and swiped the screen, looking at the text message her mom had just sent.
Did we book my class’s field trip for the first or second Tuesday of September?
Rebekah pinched the bridge of her nose. Her mother was
