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We’re taking a private jet to Denver, and while that just confirms that our whole first meeting was a setup, I’m looking forward to not flying commercial. Not that I need to pack that much for a single night. But this way, I don’t have to mess around with travel-size things, and I can put it all in one bag.
Pulling open the cabinet beside me, I pause.
Last night I was a little out of it after my shower, and I didn’t use the antibiotic cream on my palms like the doctor told me to.
He was really nice, and so was his wife, but I didn’t want to be with strangers, so I rushed through his exam and had them leave.
Sighing, I pull out the large zippered leather bag the doctor’s wife gave me before they left, which I just shoved into the cupboard without opening. It’s worn and looks like a vintage doctor’s bag.
I half watched Doc put some extra bandages and the tube of cream into the bag, but his wife told me she had already filled it with the usual first aid items, so I should keep it handy because I might find them useful.
Heavier than I expected it to be, I set the bag on the counter with a thud and unzip it.
The antibiotic cream is right on top, so I pull that out first, followed by two bandages, and set them aside. Then I shuffle through the rest of the contents, just so I know what’s in here.
More bandages—of every size—a thermometer, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bottle of iodine, a little bag with what looks like medical tweezers, a box of tampons—interesting—packets of blood-clotting powder—yikes—what looks like a sewing kit for stitches—extra yikes—a bottle of prescription painkillers and another bottle of antibiotics with my name on it—guess that could come in handy—and… I pull the last item all the way out. A pregnancy test?
I stare at the box for a long moment.
Why would that be in a first aid kit?
My eyes move back over to the prescription pill bottles. Maybe there are certain drugs you can’t take while you’re pregnant, so you’d want to test first?
I’m sliding the box back into the bag when a thought hits me.
I jam the box into place and pull open the drawer at my hip.
There, right on top, are my birth control pills.
I take them every morning. I try to take them at the same time. I’m not always exact, but it’s always before noon.
My hands are starting to tremble as I lift the packet out of the drawer. I haven’t had my dose for today yet, so I carefully push the pill through the thin foil on the back of the packet.
I place it in my mouth, but my mouth is suddenly too dry to swallow the tiny pill, so I have to grab my coffee in order to swallow it.
But my eyes can’t make sense of what I’m looking at. Because according to the pill I just took, I’m three days late.
My period is never late.
A wave of nausea hits me, but I shove it away.
That’s just my imagination. My mind playing with me.
I’m not pregnant.
I cannot be pregnant.
I put the pills back in the drawer and slam it shut.
Then pull it back open.
I need to pack those.
I pick the packet back up and set it on the counter while the pregnancy test mocks me from inside the leather bag.
Should I take it?
I stand frozen, staring.
