Too Wrong: Hayes Brothers Book 2

My bed isn’t the most comfortable, but ten times better than the hospital one. Now, safe in my own flat, I lay awake since five in the morning, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out how to move on. How to proceed with my life and erase Logan.

I miss him so much I feel like my sanity is splintering. It’s unhealthy, to say the least, but at the same time, a tiny, lackluster part of me reveals that he won’t be showing up again. That I won’t watch him leave in the middle of the night.

We can go back to being civil, to acknowledging our existence with a polite nod whenever we bump into each other in town. It’ll be fine.

It sure won’t feel like my heart is being torn right out of my chest because I’ve had him, even if briefly, and now we’ll be perfect strangers.

At eight, I drag myself out of bed, rolling and squatting to protect the ribs, and by nine—after a painful shower and even worse attempt at getting dressed—I arrive at the clinic in a summery, button-down dress. No amount of makeup would cover the stitches under my eyebrow, so I didn’t bother covering the bruised cheekbone.

“Dear God!” Darcie shouts, rushing from behind her desk. “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

Her sudden outburst summons Dr. Jones, who emerges from his office, eyes narrowed and two deep wrinkles marking his forehead as he looks me over.

“I’m okay. I had a car accident, but thankfully I only fractured two ribs. I’ve been at the hospital since Wednesday, which is why I didn’t come over sooner.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Darcie squeezes my shoulder. “That must’ve been awful!”

Dr. Jones rolls his eyes behind her back. “Come on, Cassidy. We’ll talk in my office.”

My heart picks up a higher rhythm. He doesn’t sound casual and cheerful as always. The mild unease rolling around me until now quadruples in seconds. What if this isn’t about the STD tests but the Pap smear? I inhale as deeply as possible without bursting into tears from the pain knifing my ribs.

I push a slow breath out, calming myself down. I try not to let my mind wander to the six-letter word no one wants to hear, but it’s impossible.

Cancer.

“Take a seat,” he says, pointing at the chair in front of a narrow, white desk. “How are you feeling?”

I’ve heard this question too many times over the past two days. “Honestly, I’m okay. The ribs hurt, but painkillers take the edge off, and,” I gesture to the stitches under my eyebrow, “this will heal in no time.”

He bobs his head, lost in thought. “What tests have you had done at the hospital?” His tone is soothing as if he’s trying to ease me into a false sense of security before he drops a bomb. “Did they draw blood? X-rays?”

“Both. Why?”

“What medication are you on now?”

“Just painkillers. Why?” I ask again, squirming in my seat. “Is this about the results? What’s wrong with me? God, please don’t tell me I have HIV and infected half of the hospi—”

“Cassidy,” he says in a strained huff, his voice back to the formal doctor-patient tone he rarely uses. He peers up from the notepad on his desk and rips the ground from beneath my feet with one sentence. “You’re pregnant.”

My thoughts come to a sudden halt the same way my Fiat stopped when I crashed. The words echo in my ears like a looped voice clip.

Cassidy, you’re pregnant.

You’re pregnant.

Pregnant…

“No, that’s not right,” I whisper, gathering my thoughts and clinging to the idea. “It’s a mistake. You know I’m on the pill. It’s not possible.”

“Everything is possible.” He ties his fingers together, resting his hands on the desk. “Pills fail from time to time. Maybe you didn’t take them regularly or took medication that weakened their effectiveness. I don’t know, but I ran the labs twice myself. You’re definitely pregnant.”

This is a dream. A bad, bad dream.

I find my thigh and pinch hard enough to break the first layer of skin with my nails. It’s not a dream. My chest tightens, my lungs compress, and I can’t pull down a breath. The sharp stabbing in my ribcage mixes with fear, the weight of the news crushing me inside out.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Jones says, getting up to fetch me a cup of water. “All other tests came back negative, so you don’t need to worry about STDs. We’ll do an ultrasound to see how far along you are and get you started on prenatal vitamins…”

He’s talking.

Saying I need to stop taking painkillers and that he’ll write me a prescription for pregnancy-friendly medication and that I need to rest and…

I’m not sure what else. I’m only half listening. I can’t focus. On the outside, I’m well put together, eyes on his, head nodding whenever I think it’s the right thing to do, but on the inside, I’m screaming.

I’m pregnant with the man I love more than life.

Can I keep the baby? Raise it by myself? Does Logan have the right to know?

Maybe.

Will I tell him?

I don’t know.

I’m scared of his reaction. Not one scenario will work in my favor. Either he’ll stay with me because he’ll want to do right by his child, but he’ll hate me when his brothers stop talking to him, or he’ll tell me to book an appointment at the abortion clinic, and then he’ll cut me out of his life.

I wish there was a third option. One where he’d smile down at me, excited, happy, and in love. One where he’d kiss me and then drop to his knees to kiss my tummy.

I move my hand to my abdomen for a moment, then yank it away. This isn’t the time to get attached to someone I might never meet.

Maybe I shouldn’t tell Logan. He’ll hate me, and while I can handle indifference, I don’t think I can handle hate from the one person I love.

“Cassidy,” Dr. Jones’s voice breaks through the turmoil of my disarrayed thoughts. “I didn’t think to ask the question when you came here on Monday, but… when you asked me to test you for STDs, was the sex consensual?”

“Oh God, yes!” I yelp, digging my nails into the backs of my hands. “Yes, it was, but I can’t understand how this is possible. I never missed a pill, and they’re supposed to work!”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” He pushes the paperwork on his desk aside, leaning closer to me. “It happens. Not often, but it does. Let me do the ultrasound, and you can go home and think about your next step, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, nodding like a bobblehead dog on the dashboard before my eyes widen. “What about the car crash? What if—”

“Don’t think ahead,” he warns. “You’re not showing, so you can’t be too far along, and with no internal damage other than the broken ribs…” he trails off. “Any bleeding or pains?”

I shake my head no.

“That’s good. Can you remember when you had your last period?”

I shake my head again but open my mouth, too. “No, they’re not regular on the pill. Sometimes I don’t have one for months, so I don’t pay attention.”

“Okay, what about unprotected sex? When was that?”

My cheeks heat in an instant.

I’m counting, trying to come up with a number. How long ago did Logan and I have sex for the first time? Thalia’s birthday was in March. Express dates, the first week of April. It’s the first week of July now.

“Um, first time about three months ago.”

Thirteen weeks. I’d be showing at thirteen weeks, wouldn’t I? No way I’m that far along. I’ve not been sick or tired or had any cravings. I feel normal.

I wish I knew when my last period was and how to count when I’m ovulating. Maybe if I were nauseous, I would’ve realized sooner. Maybe if my periods were more regular or if I craved weird food, but I’m pregnancy-symptom-free so far.

He’s not fazed by the answer, and I’m grateful for his impeccable professionalism. “Okay, you can’t be further along than the first trimester. We can do a normal ultrasound first, but I’d recommend a transvaginal. It’ll show us the pregnancy, even if it’s only a few weeks old. Do you want me to get a nurse to help you get changed?”

“No, I’ll manage.”

It takes longer than usual to shimmy out of my dress and into a gown, but the moment of solitude gives me a chance to breathe and think. I gawk at my reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on my tummy. I turn left and right, checking for any roundness, then press my fingers there, frowning. Was my abdomen always so firm? Was this slight curve here before?

“Are you okay there, Cass?” Dr. Jones taps on the door.

“Yes, sorry.” I shove my hands into the sleeves of the gown and try to hold the back closed because there’s no way I’ll reach behind to tie it up. “I’m much slower now that I need to watch how I move.”

“I broke a few ribs when I was younger, so I know how it hurts. You’re handling it like a champ, believe me. I was more theatrical.”

I lay down on the bed with a bit of help, and Dr. Jones repositions my legs: ankles together, knees apart.

“Okay, try to relax. It’ll feel cold.”

As always. He rolls a condom on the wand, covers it in clear gel, and then hauls a monitor closer before slowly sticking the wand inside me.

It’s a surreal experience.

I’ve not had time to come to terms with the news yet, to stop and understand that a tiny person is growing inside me. A tiny person with Logan’s eyes and dark hair, my nose, and lips. His cleverness, my passion, and…

The warmness spreading around my bruised heart is close to what I feel when I’m with Logan… happy. I’ve learned not to hang onto that feeling.

It never lasts.

I shut my eyes, blocking the enticing images of a baby lying in a crib beside the large bed in Logan’s bedroom.

Dr. Jones wiggles the wand around for a while before it stills, and he smiles wide enough to highlight the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. “Okay, I found the little one. Don’t move. I’ll do the measurements. Do you want me to put the sound on? You can hear the heartbeat.”

My eyes prickle with tears when I shake my head. I want to hear it, but if I decide not to keep the baby, the sound will haunt me forever. I bite my lip, glaring at the ceiling.

“I know it’s a surprise pregnancy, Cassidy, but give yourself time, okay? Don’t go making rash decisions. Think, and think again, and when you’re certain you know what you want to do, I’m here to help any way you decide.”

Words don’t get past my lips. They’re stuck in my throat, behind a big lump that makes swallowing painful. I’m fighting not to burst into tears for the duration of the ultrasound that takes all but five minutes.

“From the measurements, you’re nine weeks and three days. The baby looks healthy and is developing as it should at this stage. I see no cause for concern.”

Nine weeks. I’ve been pregnant for two months, and I haven’t noticed. I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper pennies on my tongue.

How could I not have noticed?! What kind of a potential mother does that make me if I didn’t even realize I’m pregnant?

“I’ve been drinking,” I say, my voice breaking. “I didn’t know, and I’ve been drinking and partying and stressing and lifting and—”

Dr. Jones squeezes my hand reassuringly. “The baby is fine, Cassidy. Do you think you’re the only woman who didn’t know she was pregnant? I’ve had women not realize until halfway through the second trimester. You can’t go back and change things now, so don’t beat yourself up. Make sure you take care of yourself going forward. No drinking, no lifting, no stressing, and lots of rest.” He squeezes my hand again when I wipe my face. “Get dressed. I’ll print the pictures and write a prescription for folic acid and vitamins.”

He helps me to a sitting position, a fond look across his face that does little to help me cope. I lock myself back in the bathroom, shedding the gown with trembling hands.

“I don’t have any symptoms,” I say loud enough for him to hear me. “I’ve not been sick or had cravings. Is that normal?”

He chuckles softly, the sound barely reaching me through the closed door. “Every pregnancy is different. Some women puke and some don’t. You should be glad you’ve had no morning sickness. Many women would give up their arm and leg not to throw up every day. That’s not to say it won’t come. There’s still plenty of time.”

Maybe my symptoms are mild? Or easily mistaken. I’ve been tired and low on energy lately, which resulted in more hours spent in bed, but I associated that with long days at work and late nights with Logan.

“Darcie will book you in for another visit in four weeks, and she’ll give you a pregnancy pack at the desk,” he tells me when I’m back in his office. “Get over to the pharmacy today and start taking the folic acid and the vitamins right away. I’ve printed a few pictures.” He hands me a prescription slip and a sealed A4 envelope. “Just in case you want to have a look. Call me if you have any questions.”

I have one hundred questions, but Dr. Jones doesn’t have the answers.

Only I do.