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“I was seventeen and they were down by my knees!” I pull away from the store. “But it doesn’t matter. Like I said, I feel strange. I shouldn’t have broken down like that over the weekend.”
“You sent me to buy a pregnancy test on the basis of your breakdown this weekend? One that was caused by your addiction?”
I don’t reply. Okay, so it sounds a little crazy when she puts it like that. And, really, who can deal with falling in love and a pregnancy test in, like, three days? Not me, but here I am anyway.
Because being pregnant is a far more rational explanation for my crazy-as-hell emotions. Even if addiction would—for once—be the preferable answer.
“You aren’t going to make me sit in McDonald’s while you do it, are you?”
I cut my eyes to her. “Lick a dick, Black. Lick a fucking dick.”
She laughs loudly.
“No,” I answer seriously. “I’m going to do it at home. He isn’t there.”
“You aren’t going to tell him?”
“That I’m pissing on a stick because I’m fucking insane? No.”
“But what if you’re not insane? What if your breakdown was because you are pregnant and it was your addiction telling you to listen to your body?” she reasons. “Then what do you do?”
“I tell my sex-addict boyfriend that the object of his desire is about to balloon by forty pounds and get a permanent tiger-esque makeover and an enlarged vagina. Oh, and we get an adorable peeing, pooping, screaming, up-all-night baby at the end of it.” I pull up outside her apartment block and look at her. “I have no symptoms, okay? None. Just a strange gut feeling I’m not sure I can trust.”
“It could be gas.”
“Get out the car and I’ll go and find out.”
She pushes open the door and glances over her shoulder before stepping out. “Wait. Did you pee already today?”
I clench my legs together and give her a tight smile. “No, so move your fucking ass!”
She gets out without another word and waves to me as I pull away. I’m not joking about the pee thing. My bladder hurts like a bitch.
I break the speed limit on almost every street on the way back to my apartment. Again, I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t get pulled over. I tuck the bag into my purse as I go upstairs…just in case. You never know who’s going to be around here, and both my neighbor and the old bat downstairs are the biggest gossips in the neighborhood.
They see me with a pregnancy test and, by next week, I’m going to be having triplets with a Latino stripper I met during a photo shoot in Zimbabwe.
Luckily, I make it to my apartment without seeing anyone, and I all but run inside. Desperately hoping Tyler will be here so I don’t have to pee on this stick.
Silence greets me though, and the door shuts behind me with a thundering click. “Ty, you here?”
Nothing. I check every room, clutching my purse to my chest. Again, nothing. Not even Angus.
I’m one hundred percent alone.
I have to take this test, although I think my gut knows the answer.
I walk into the bathroom thinking how ridiculous this is. Day is right—one breakdown and a random gut feeling five minutes after waking up this morning don’t justify the need for a pregnancy test.
I dump the box on top of the toilet seat and stare at it. Long, rectangular… The answer to my question.
Shit. I’m not seventeen anymore.
I tear the plastic off the box and open it. The test is long and thin, and I pull the cap off, showing the absorbent tip. Taking a deep breath, I pull up the toilet seat, pull down my pants, and sit.
And so begins the awkward How To Pee On The Stick dance.
Opening my legs as wide as humanly fucking possible—Tyler would have a field day if he could see this position—and leaning forward, I shove the stick between my legs and pee.
