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I emerge from the stifling bathroom and make my way to the more inviting kitchen. My nose continues to be filled with the acrid smell of vomit for some reason. Unexpectedly, I find myself giving in to the same chaotic mornings that I'd been going through far too frequently in recent times. It seems as though I’m forced to wake up every day with the urge to throw up my insides. The last time something similar occurred to me, I had accidentally consumed an entire tub of ice cream despite being fully aware that my intolerance to lactose would almost certainly cause me to experience an unpleasant consequence.
As I stretch out my legs and listen to the sound of my feet scuffing against the floor, the peculiar grogginess that I experience due to my morning stomach aches begins to fade. I feel some relief in my throat after drinking a glass of ice-cold water which I prepared for myself.
I’m extremely grateful that I don't have to go to work today; however, I really wish that feeling hadn't woken me up so that I could have enjoyed a nice, luxurious sleep-in instead. After coming to the reluctant realization that I would not be able to go back to sleep, I conclude that some light yoga would be an excellent way to begin the day. I go outside, unroll my yoga mat, and take a deep breath of the crisp, clean air, as I decide to perform some sun salutations. Yoga has long been my go-to method for calming my nerves. One of the unintended benefits of practicing yoga that came as a pleasant surprise is the fact that it helps me maintain a healthy body. In my case, it assists me in retaining my curves while simultaneously toning my arms and legs. As I move from one position to the next, I can feel the tension leaving my body. My muscles thank me for the opportunity to be stretched out and moved.
But, as I transition into downward dog, the familiar feeling of unease strikes me once again, and I race into the bathroom, throwing up whatever small trace of breakfast I had left in my stomach.
As I lie on the bathroom floor, enjoying and welcoming the feeling of the cool tiles on my face, I briefly ponder when my last period was. After a few seconds of mental calculations, I’m almost certain it has been over a month. Unintentionally, I have become quite adept in understanding my cycle since splitting from Marcos. With that thought, I shoot up and realize that isn't true. I'd slept with Zak. My heart begins to race with panic, but I breathe deeply, slowing it down and rationalizing. My period has been late before, especially with life changes like moving cities, so this is no big deal. I'd slept with Marcos without contraception so many times that I'd convinced myself I was infertile. A foolish decision, I know, but birth control doesn't suit me, and well, you try convincing Marcos to wear a condom. This is probably all just one big coincidence, I tell myself. I can't stop the nagging voice in my head telling me to do a test; if I think I couldn't be pregnant, what harm could it do? Knowing it couldn't hurt to check, I begin rummaging around the bathroom cabinet, hopeful that Mel has an emergency pregnancy test tucked away.
Unfortunately, I realize that she doesn't come to that bathroom. She would obviously use the one in her and Dave’s room, so, feeling like an amateur spy, I sneak into her room. After ensuring the hallway is clear, I concoct a believable excuse - that I am looking for shampoo - in case anyone happens to walk in. I rummage through her drawers, feeling guilty for snooping. Surely she keeps one around in case of an emergency; she’s 10 years younger than my father, so she could still very easily conceive. To my surprise, cosmetics seem to take center stage. While her collection of items is impressive and slightly alarming, how the heck could she afford or even use all of this? I can't locate a pregnancy test. Exasperated, I realize I am going to have to hit the drugstore.
I hurriedly drive to the drug store, tapping my finger on the steering wheel nervously. I hope the familiar faces of this small town won’t cross my path as I maneuver through the aisles. The last thing I need is somebody catching me buying a pregnancy test and telling my dad. As I push my cart around the corner, I spot the section I’m looking for and quietly make my way closer. I pick up three pregnancy tests, just in case the first is wrong or I want to do another one in a few weeks.
It’s always a good idea to have one around; I think about telling this to Mel, then realize that would be weird and would also reveal that I had searched through her stuff. No, this is on me. I toss the tests into the cart. As I make my way to the tills, I throw a few family-size bags of chips on top in a poor attempt to hide the tests. I would make a terrible spy.
But, just as I take a relieved breath, I hear a voice call out from behind me.
"Izzie, is that you?" It’s one of my father's friends and neighbors, a plump, short woman I remember talking to at the wedding. I think she owns a bakery downtown. She seems like a nice lady. I turn to face her and put on my most natural smile. I scramble for something to say.
"How you doing, sweetie? Whatcha you doing here?" She questions me with innocence, but I see her look down at the cart. The edges of her mouth twitch with suspicion.
"Oh, nothing special," I say with a nervous chuckle. "Just doing a bit of shopping." I clench my jaw, feeling a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. Why can't people around here just mind their own business?
"It's alright," she says, seemingly understanding my shame. "Everyone needs to run errands every now and then."
I want to run away but force myself to stay a few moments longer. "Anyway," I say, turning away. "I really should get going so I can finish up in here."
"Sure," she replies in a quiet tone before I scurry away, determined not to draw any further attention to myself.
I make a mad dash for the cash register while simultaneously sending up fervent prayers that none of the other customers had noticed my behavior. Even if the bakery woman does, for some reason, tell my father I'd been buying pregnancy tests, there is no reason for him to suspect that I had been with Zak. Despite this, I am experiencing anxiety. Once I am safely back in my car, I’m able to let out a long, satisfying sigh. I’m not certain that I successfully evaded capture, but at this point, there is nothing else I can do but wait for the examination.
While I am driving home, my hands begin to shake as the anxiety of not knowing the outcome of the test begins to weigh heavily on my chest. I ask myself what I would do if I find out I’m pregnant. Do I possess the strength to get rid of it? I quickly dismiss that thought because I’m aware that, in point of fact, I already know that I would not be able to carry out that action. Therefore, if I am pregnant, I will give birth to this child. What exactly should I say to my dad? What about my friends? My head is swimming with a variety of possible outcomes, and it’s driving me crazy. Now that I have the test in my hands, it seems more real. I have to admit that I have a deep feeling in my gut; my intuition is already telling me everything I need to know.
I am so terrified that I almost can't bring myself to set foot inside my own home. After I pace around the room awhile, I find my way to the bathroom and pull the box out of my bag to examine it. I carefully read the directions before tearing open the package and getting started.
I am in excruciating pain as the minutes ticked by, waiting for the results to become clear. After a long moment of indecision, I finally look down at the white stick, and the results are plain to see. Positive. I have a glimmer of hope that perhaps I misread it, so I decide to conduct the other two tests just to be absolutely certain. As soon as they are ready, the three pregnancy tests are placed in front of me, and each one gives the same result. Those pink lines are hard to argue with. I am unable to continue to deny it any longer. Without a doubt, the father is Zak, who is my dad's best friend and also happens to be my grouchy and condescending boss. I am pregnant.
Zak
As I sand away at a coffee table I was refurbishing for the house, I consider Izzie's apparent bad mood. Since she arrived this morning, I don't think she has said two words to me except grunting a hello and a yes in response to my offer of a coffee. Fine, if she wants to work like that, I can too. I can't help but feel slightly disappointed; I’ve come to enjoy and, dare I say, look forward to our days working together. I am never sure what will come out of Izzie's mouth, but it usually makes me laugh or entertains me in some way.
I sigh, accepting that she is probably in a bad mood for some other reason, and I shouldn't let it get to me in any way.
"Fuck!" I hear a crash and a shout coming from the room Izzie is working in. I rush to her immediately, worried she was hurt or injured in some way. I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing she'd just spilled the paint. She looks up at me with doe eyes from the floor.
“Are you okay?” I ask, walking over to her and crouching to her level. I see her eyes fill with tears.
"Yes, I'm fine," she responds sternly.
"Well, that's obviously not true, petal."
"Don't call me Petal," she spits out. At least the tears are no longer brewing; they've been replaced by anger and annoyance towards me.
"Whatever you say, petal," I smirk.
She glares at me for a moment before breaking out into uncharacteristically loud laughter. I am not really concerned. For Izzie to react to the nickname she hates by laughing rather than calling me an asshole or hitting me, something must seriously be wrong. I gently place a hand on her shoulder.
"Hey, Iz," I ask quietly as her laughter subsides. "Are you okay?"
