Page 9 of Kicking Up Dust

“I just had one. In… March, I think.” I think back, stomach dropping. “Yeah, the second week of March. Right before spring break.”

Stephanie’s lips twist and she looks at Chelsey so I follow her gaze. Chelsey’s biting her lip, looking at Stephanie like they’re having a secret conversation I don’t get to be privy to. I don’t really appreciate that, all things considered.

“It’s April 15th⁠—”

“Okay, and?”

“And I remember you mentioned your period was really light last month,” Chelsey continues like I didn’t interrupt her. “Like, it only lasted for a day and barely filled a tampon.”

“So? I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” I argue, standing up and heading to the sink to brush my teeth. “Besides, my period isn’t always regular.”

I watch in the mirror as they exchange another one of those loaded glances. Stephanie sighs. “A light period in March, no period in April, throwing up, moodiness, sleeping all the time⁠—”

“I’m stressed!” I garble around the toothbrush. There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that has absolutely nothing to do with this not-a-stomach-virus.

“You’re pregnant,” Chelsey argues, finally cutting to the chase.

I spit my mouthful of foam into the sink, but Stephanie speaks up before I can yell at our roommate.

“Or you really are just sick, but we think you should take a test to check. Best case scenario, we’re both wrong and you’re just annoyed with us for a little while.”

“Worst-case scenario, we visit the clinic so you can exercise one of your rights as a woman in the wonderful state of California!” Chelsey adds, in an overly cheerful voice.

I glare at both of them. I’m not pregnant. If I were pregnant, I’d know.

Besides, I hadn’t had sex since the cowboy from the rodeo and that was months ago. I would’ve definitely known by now.

And we used protection. Two kinds, actually, since I had the shot and he’d also worn a condom. Sure, neither method was 100% effective, but both methods together? The odds of me being pregnant were so laughably small that it was much more likely I was just dying of the plague.

Right?

“I don’t have time for this. I’ve already missed Analytics and I’m going to be late for Research if I don’t finish getting ready,” I say, pushing past them.

After three and a half years together, Chelsey and Stephanie are used to my stubbornness, so they don’t continue to press—though the disappointed sigh I hear while I shove my notebooks in my tote bag tells me they’re only tabling the discussion, not dropping it for good.

I’m not pregnant.

There’s literally no way I could be.

With everything in me, I ignore the part of me that knows Chelsey and Stephanie are right. I shove her deep down in a box surrounded by soundproof foam so I can’t hear her screaming at me.

It’s pouring down rain by the time I get to my Marketing Research class. I spend most of it researching possible illnesses that my symptoms could be contributing to besides pregnancy.

SIX

COLT

The moment my feet hit the dirt in Tacoma, I’m heading toward my truck. I shrug out of the hands clapping my back and shoulders and telling me how well I rode.

I want to go home. I need to go home.

In the darkness of my pickup’s cab as I fly down the I-90, I can admit to myself something I haven’t admitted to anyone else yet. I fucking hate my job.

Not always.

I used to love it.

The roar of the crowd, the power of the bull between my thighs, the adrenaline of knowing I was eight seconds away from a hefty check or a death sentence depending on how it went… I fucking craved it.