Page 2 of Everything But Mine

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’re pregnant.”

Our voices overlap, our lips forming the same word at once, a closeness that leaves me hollow. That single word echoes between us, heavy with a finality that tastes like loss.

I open my eyes to a pulsing headache hammering between my temples. I’m sprawled on top of a blanket on the floor of a room I don’t recognize. Scanning my surroundings, my eyes adjust to the darkness. As I shift, a thigh releases its hook around my leg.

There’s a half-naked woman, and part of my body’s on top of her. Her skirt is hiked up, tights and underwear bunched around one ankle, ass and pussy bared as if there’s any doubt left of what I did. I wince and turn away. This isn’t right. None of this is ever right.

Standing to my feet, panic crawls up my stomach, as my headache overrides my pounding heart. The only thing that’ll help is finding a discarded condom to take the edge off this anxiety. I’m not known for being lucky. I pull at my hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My jeans are open, fly halfway down, but otherwise I’m fully dressed. I spot my jacket on the floor. Still no luck. Not even a foil.

What a piece of shit I am.

Grabbing the waistband of my jeans, I finally feel it, still wrapped around the head of my limp dick. I tug it off carefully, inspecting it. No cum.

My breath hitches, and I stare back at the sleeping woman. Fuck no. Let it not be tonight. Bathroom. I need a bathroom. I hold the condom tightly and slip out of the bedroom, the undone belt buckle clinking with each step.

In the bathroom, I close the door and fill the condom with water. I hold it against the harsh LED lighting and examine it carefully.

No leaks. I exhale. That’s check one, but the most important. No baby. No other baby.

I tie it off, drop it in the trash, and scrub my hands. I let the tune of Happy Birthday play in my head once, just like I was taught as a child. Twice. As if I can peel the night off my skin. Then I pull out my dick, still limp, and examine it again. No crust from dried cum. Just the slick feel of dried lube. I rub my fingers along the shaft, bringing them to my nose.

Latex. Faint but present. Nothing else. No trace of her. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The skin around my deep amber eyes is sallow and shadowed. Pupils blown. The waves of my hair are tangled and in disarray. I am exhausted. Crazed. Empty. A flaccid cock in my pants, and guilt in my chest.

“I’m more than my failures,” I whisper to my reflection, straight into my own eyes.

I’ve said these same words a thousand times. It’s useless. But it’s all I’ve got when I’m drowning in the shame of what I couldn’t do—and what I still did anyway. It doesn’t fix anything, but I cling to the words like a kid to a blanket. They are all I’ve got most days. I wash myself again. Hands. Dick. Then again, for good measure, finally tucking in, zipping up, trying to look normal.

No other baby, I remind myself. It brings me a flicker of relief. I don’t feel anywhere near good. Just better.

I need my jacket. Get out of here. Pretend this never happened.

Maybe I should just leave my fucking jacket. I stumble into the living room. A woman—the woman, I think—is on the couch, my coat folded over her lap.

Her short hair is messy but not out of control, and she’s changed into a long nightshirt that covers most of her legs. She has dark eyes, but I can’t see the color. And she must not have been wearing much makeup since her face looks clean. Below her neck and on top of her breasts, just right underneath her left collarbone, there’s a one-lined swallow tattoo, captured mid-flight. She’s quite pretty. She’s just not her. Swallows represent homecoming, but this wasn’t coming home for me. She’s smoothing her palms over the fabric. The intimacy of the gesture turns my stomach to the point I taste some of the whiskey I must have drunk earlier.

“I better…”

She stretches out her hand and offers me the jacket.

I grab it without touching her fingers. “Thank you.”

“You wanna crash on the couch? It’s late.”

It’s still pitch-black. Middle of the night. Though, here’s the last place I want to be. I can’t be here. I need to get the hell out.

I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I hesitate. Better give her peace of mind, too. “The condom didn’t break. I checked.”

“Actually,” she says, voice dry, “I don’t think you came. You didn’t seem to want me to touch you, or to touch me. You pulled away and passed out as soon as I made myself come.”

Of course I didn’t fucking come. I never do. I’m more than my failures. The words do nothing. They just echo in my chest, dull and useless. Her voice keeps going. There’s a cavalier replay of what sounds like awful sex. I’m glad I can’t remember it. My lack of orgasm. Lack of touch. My disengagement. My feet shift uneasily, my skin crawls in need of cleansing, and my ears buzz, like static, in overpowering self-loathing. I am, apparently, a robot-like lover. The wrong voice referring to me as a lover makes me feel worse than I already do. She doesn’t mean it in a bitchy way, just facts. Not that I’m surprised by any of it.

“I can leave my number if you need help getting Plan B,” I say, trying to claw back some decency. “Or I can go to a doctor with you⁠—”

She waves me off.

“I have an implant.” She lifts her arm like proof. “You don’t need to worry about that. Do you want to leave your phone number for anything?”