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The moment the front door closes, I leap out of bed. It’s time to leave. Even though my heart’s heavy, I get to work packing with an almost maniacal energy. I have to get away from this place because there’s nothing here for me anymore. Not the money, not the luxury, and certainly, not any love.
With trembling hands, I stash my stuff into a large duffel, my fingers hesitating over the luxurious clothing purchased by my man. But my hands skip over the silks and satins, choosing only to take what I brought. After all, where would I wear the glamorous evening gowns and sexy cocktail dresses? In my regular life, I’m dressed in t-shirts and jeans, and that’s going to have to do once more.
The ride to my old apartment is miserably lonely, and I feel nauseous the entire time. When I step inside, it’s almost like entering a time capsule. There’s my shabby little pull-down bed. There’s the coffee table I scrounged from the street. There’s the colorful, raggedy afghan that I bought at a jumble sale. It’s so small and poky, but with a grim face, I unpack my bag. This is my home, and it’s where I belong. The real Simona doesn’t live in a penthouse in the sky, nor does she eat caviar or get her hair and nails done on a weekly basis. Instead, the real me paints her own nails at the kitchen table while scarfing down saltines and listening to the radio.
Of course, I try to console myself. I tell myself that none of this bothers me and that I’ll be okay despite my broken heart. But I know it’s not true. The only thing keeping me from bursting into tears right now is my sheer exhaustion… and then, the sudden rush of bile rising in my throat.
Oh shit! I rush into my bathroom and vomit what feels like gallons of foul liquid into the toilet. It splatters with a disgusting sound, and I pant, heaving and sweating, trying to get my breath back. When the nausea has finally passed, I flush the toilet and turn on the tap to rinse out my mouth. The aftertaste is absolutely disgusting, like a mix of cheese and rotted fish.
But then, a thought makes me draw up short. Holy shit! Am I pregnant? James and I always use protection, but there were a few times when the moment was so hot that we skipped the condom. It felt amazing, and I loved having him in me raw and filthy, but now, am I paying the price?
Like a madman, I scramble to my feet and dash out of my apartment to run to a convenience store. Then I purchase a test before heading back to my studio and peeing on the stick per the instructions. Now comes the waiting. I wait. And wait. And wait. Oh god, what’s going to happen?
An eternity seems to pass before the alarm on my phone beeps, but when I look down at the results, a sob immediately slips past my lips. It’s positive. Of fucking course it is. What excellent timing.
My thoughts start tumbling over each other as I absorb this latest blow. I can’t afford a baby. Hell, I’m an escort for crying out loud! It would be foolish for me to try and have a child when I’m still struggling to figure myself out. I start hyperventilating, and my heart beats so hard that I literally have chest pains. Am I dying?
But some part of me knows that this isn’t death; it’s just a panic attack. I need to calm myself down before I pass out because that could be a catastrophe, seeing that I’m alone and pregnant in my apartment.
Breathing through my nose, I scramble to where my duffel bag sits at the bottom of the closet and savagely tear it open. I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I spot it wedged in the bottom corner. It’s one of James’s old t-shirts. I took it before I left, like the pathetic sap that I am, but now, I bury my nose in the soft cotton, inhaling deeply as tears spring to my eyes. This is all I have left of the man that I love, and my heart breaks all over again as I begin sobbing once more.
After a few minutes, I sit up straighter. God, there’s snot running down my nose and my eyes must be swollen and red. But my phone’s ringing, and I pick up.
“Hey Patty.”
“Hey girlfriend,” comes my friend’s voice. “You look terrible. Is everything okay?”
I don’t even bother to give her any warning.
“Patty, I’m pregnant.”
My statement shocks her into silence for a few seconds, but then she smiles broadly.
“Oh my god! Girlfriend, I’m so happy for you!” she squeals. “We’ll have our babies at the same time. Have you told James yet?”
