Pretty Broken Butterfly

It Was Supposed To Be You

"All right. Pregnancy tests. We'll both go get them."

Maybe she was hoping I wouldn't catch the slip because of my situation.

"Amelia Shae," I gasp. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"I said we'll go get some tests," she repeats firmly. "I'll be there in ten. Have your ass ready."

How does one get ready to go grab a pregnancy test? T-shirt and leggings? Blouse and jeans?

How do other people dress when they're trying to determine whether they're pregnant by someone other than who they should be?

I glance down at my off-the-shoulder, beige, midriff sweater, the black leggings, and my chipped black toe polish. Then touch the messy bun on the top of my head.

Fuck it.

"I'm ready," I tell her, deciding to stay as I am.

***

I rub my palms down the thighs of my leggings, trying to erase the sweat that's gathered on them.

"So many choices," I mutter, staring at all the different brands of pregnancy tests.

"They all work the same, right?" Amelia asks, grabbing one from the shelf and turning it to read the back.

I watch as she picks up one after the other, mumbling incoherently before tossing them in the basket hooked to her arm.

After a few minutes of observing her, I know there's a hell of a lot going on under that stoic exterior of hers. I refuse to push her, not wanting the chance she'll shut down. Amelia will open up to me about this when she's comfortable enough.

I grab a random test from the shelf and follow her lead, flipping it to the back to try to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to be doing with my life right now.

As if this is actually going to give me that answer.

A loud, painful grunt sounds out from the end of the aisle, jerking my eyes up from the box and over that way.

Keaton stands at the end of it, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, glossy eyes glued to the box I'm currently crushing in my hand.

"Charlie," he croaks, on the verge of allowing his tears to spill over.

The horrified, heartbroken expression on his face is all it takes to have an explosion of grief and rage colliding inside me. They burn hotly until the cage I'm trying to contain them in can no longer withstand the power they hold. The bars of the cage shatter, releasing a torrent of devastating emotions inside.

They scream to be heard, not allowing my plea for them to stay quiet.

They swirl around us, battering against our skin in a bruising punishment.

I experience bitter agony with each step I take toward him and I only allow myself a moment to break when I'm standing right in front of him.

He doesn't get to hide from this. He doesn't get to run from the destruction his choices left behind.

"You don't get to be hurt," my voice splintering from the agony pouring through me. "You don't get to look like I'm breaking your heart, Keaton. You don't get to do this to me. I'm not the villain in our story." I shove the test into his chest. "I should be doing this with you. We should be here picking this up together. But instead, I'm doing it with my best friend because my person," I pause, trying to choke back the cry that's fighting for escape, "decided I wasn't enough for him and fucked someone else. So, no. You don't get to look at me like that."