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Still nothing.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time to be upset that he’s ignoring me.
The bathroom feels a hundred miles away as I carry my bundle of tests over to the vanity, taking the first one out of its box and tossing the instructions in the trash.
The box says to wait five minutes for the test to turn. I examine the box closely, watching for any sort of caveat that could void the result of the test. A possible technical error? Bladder cancer? I’ve heard of men finding out that they have prostate cancer from taking pregnancy tests for a joke, but I doubt something that crazy that would happen to me.
Waiting five minutes for the test to turn is complete agony. I try to distract myself by scrolling through social media, but the abundance of newborns with asinine names completely turns me off from it. It’s like that idea that once you notice something exists, you see it constantly. When I got my car, I suddenly saw ten of the same model every day. Maybe the same principle applies with babies.
Then my phone timer goes off.
I take the test, gazing down at the little digital baby on the screen.
It’s no longer taunting me. It’s just there, a little jumble of pixels that could’ve just as easily been a negative result.
But it’s positive.
I’m pregnant.
Without thinking, I kneel in front of the toilet and vomit. I’m suddenly overcome by the reality of my predicament. I can’t tell Abram; that’s a given. He has no place in his life for a child, whether he wants one or not. At this point, I’m worried that I would have to be the person who told him that he would be a terrible father, given his occupation.
I’ve become a complete cliché, the kind of girl I always hated. Someone who has no regard for her own safety. Someone who chases danger just for the thrill of it and ends up in life-changing circumstances overnight. The girl who lives in a one-bedroom apartment with her shitty, emotionally-absent boyfriend and a screaming baby.
I’m the kind of girl I could never respect.
I want to ask myself how this happened. I want to give myself an out, retelling my own sob story in order to explain away my terrible decision-making abilities. But at the end of the day, none of that matters.
My tragic backstory won’t erase this pregnancy. I need to own up to what I’ve done.
But I don’t know how, and I’m terrified.
