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“This isn’t happening,” I whispered before I yelled in horror. “Oh, my God!”
“Oh, shit,” Bree said from the other side of the door. “Nat, let me in now.”
I numbly walked toward the door and unlocked it, and tears spilled out of my eyes as I nearly collapsed into my best friend’s arms.
“You know, the stories will always be the best part,” she said.
I dried my tears, now pissed as I stepped back and stared at her. “There are no best parts about me, carrying Spencer Monroe’s child.” I stopped, looked at the test again, and then looked back at Bree. “I’m going to need to try every test from the store, and then I’ll book an ultrasound with my gynecologist.”
“Slow down,” Bree said. Her eyes were filled with humor, glistening through tears. Tears of goddamn joy, of course. At least one of us was feeling joyful. It sure as fuck wasn’t me. “Just take a breath. You and I both know taking more tests, looking for the one that might come up negative, won’t change the reality. What you need to do is schedule an appointment with your gynecologist. Then we’ll have better knowledge about—”
“Do you realize that everything I’ve done with that man has resulted in disaster, all because I was caught up in the moment?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Think about it, Bree. This has ended up a nightmare because of my lapse in better judgment. I allowed my heart to get hurt because I was foolish enough to trust him with it,” I said. “And now this?” I waved the pregnancy stick in the air. “This is the worst lapse in judgment of all time, letting myself get caught up in some marriage fantasy. God knows what else I may have from not using protection.”
“You need to calm the fuck down,” Bree said in a tone only a mother would use and get away with on me. “You’re going to spin out, imagining this stupid shit because you’re operating strictly out of fear.”
“How the hell would you operate if you were in my shoes?”
“I probably couldn’t operate,” she chuckled. “But that’s me, and this is you. Natalia Hoover, you are the strongest woman I know. Now, clear your damn mind and get a grip.”
I rubbed my forehead, “What am I supposed to tell people? I’m pregnant because I decided to enter a fake relationship?”
“Since when do you care what people think?” she said with a look of bewilderment.
“I don’t actually care what anyone thinks about it or me, okay?” I said, annoyed that I had to take a moment out of my self-pity to clarify. “Obviously, I’m well aware that my life is no one’s business, but can you allow me a moment to blow things out of proportion, for Christ’s sake? I think this goddamn moment calls for it.”
“Nat, your relationship with Spencer was anything but fake. So, get that thought out of your head.”
“This isn’t happening to me,” I said, genuinely believing this would be the final straw before I took a long walk, changed my name, and never returned.
“Let’s sit by the pool so you can get some fresh air, and we can think this through. You look like a ghost.”
I exhaled. “I feel like death, so I don’t think I’ll argue with you.”
* * *
I walked into the gynecologist’s office reluctantly. My day had already been shot to shit when I woke up, knowing I was here six months prior to my scheduled annual visit. Nevertheless, I took the closest seat to the door in case I had the sudden urge to run out of there like Usain Bolt.
I was in the midst of a full-blown identity crisis. I never wanted children. How was I expected to care for a little one when I had no mother as a role model? I’d raised my brother, and look how that little mother fucker turned out. I had no idea who I was anymore and even less of a clue about how I was expected to deal with this. How did I allow myself to get into this mess with Spencer Monroe?
Stop! I ordered myself.
Instead of being alone with my thoughts, I figured I’d log into my long-forgotten Facebook account. The last time I used it was after I set it up a decade ago. Watching old acquaintances from high school whining about politics or sharing posts that threatened you with bad luck if you didn’t share them was not my idea of entertainment. Nevertheless, today, I needed the distraction. It would give me something to hate other than my situation.
Fuck, they’ve changed everything on here, I thought.
I smirked when I saw a post from Jerimiah Bowland. Looks like this dumb bastard’s wife finally filed for divorce. I scanned through the page of the top jock from high school and rolled my eyes at his perfect profile picture: three adorable kids, no wife, and a cheerful smile, trying to make himself look like the perfect dad for the attorneys to see once they went to social media for evidence. Oh well, he was a piece of shit in high school. I’m sure he’s a piece of shit now, too.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t do pregnancy, but more than that, just seeing people on this social media site, told me I couldn’t do this shit either. I closed the app, more irritated than when I opened the damn thing. None of this was me and I was about to lose my shit right now.
“Fucking hell,” I said before noticing the two pregnant women on each side, who were probably unappreciative of my foul mood and language. “Apologies.” I was flustered and totally out of my natural environment.
“It’s fine,” the young woman on my right said. She was about my age, and I couldn’t help but be humored that she had her cell phone and keys resting on her very pregnant belly.
Her demeanor was warm and pleasant, and I felt utterly drawn to the good vibes she was emitting.
