But the longer I sat and stared at the dual lines, elation over the win calmed to the cold realization that this baby would bind me to Jack forever. Not that he wasn’t a good guy. He was. He’d made mistakes, but that was the past, right? I’d seen the shift in him five years ago, when I’d walked into J.J.’s Pub. Jack had been standing behind the bar, moving with purpose and precision, like a captain in command of his ship. I’d always thought he was hot, but this newfound confidence in him was far sexier.

And I’d known I could leave at any time, even after the I dos gave me the freedom to enjoy our life. Men could be left, communication limited to divorce attorneys, and finally locked in the past. But a baby couldn’t be easily left behind.

My hand slid over tender breasts to my still-flat stomach. The bigger tits were nice now, but what would become of my body after the kid? All the sit-ups, ab crunches, and planks to get into shape. Jack appreciated a tight body, but how would he feel about me growing wide and pear-shaped? Of course he’d still love me—he’d said he’d meant “for better or worse.” But the baby would change my body—my life—and I wondered if he would still want me sexually. I’d heard enough of the teachers at school complaining in the lounge about how dull their lives had gotten since their babies.

Jack liked dancing close to the edge. He was always looking for the next rush, even if he now found it in business instead of a back-alley deal. Beyond the thrill of this test’s positive result and the baby’s birth, I wondered what would happen in the endless months and years of parenthood. He wasn’t the type to drive a van or cheer at a soccer practice. Would he stick around for the mundane moments? Would our commingled blood in the baby be enough to keep him with me?

“Of course he will,” I whispered. “He wants this baby as much as me.” And we weren’t kids in high school. We were in our thirties. Mature adults.

I’d stared at a similar positive pregnancy test in high school. It had been Clare’s.

She’d gripped it in her hand the afternoon of my New Year’s Eve party, her young, pale face drawn tight with panic. “What am I going to do?”

I had felt myself shrinking inward at the idea of having to face such a choice. At sixteen, I’d heard of other girls at school who’d thought they were pregnant, but I’d never had a front-row seat to this kind of moment.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Should we tell Brit or Marisa?”