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It was easy to drown out my anxious thoughts during class when I had twenty eleven-year-olds to distract me but during recess, I was fucked. Against my better judgment—and only because I was starving—I ventured into the staff room, and boy, was that a mistake.
One step across the threshold and all conversation ceased. All eyes flitted to me. Every expression twisted into some variation of curiously judgmental. The work I did convincing myself it’s not a big deal went up in flames.
It took two minutes to grab my lunch and haul ass out of there but the damage was done. I spent the rest of the day one wrong move away from bursting into tears, wondering if Cass and I made the right decision in letting things settle down on their own.
Rearranging my bent legs so they’re strewn across her lap, Willow squeezes my knee. “You eat yet?”
“Not hungry.”
“You still not feeling okay?”
When I shake my head, Willow kisses her teeth. Staring at me too hard for too long, she shakes her head and gets to her feet. Crouching among the mess she left on the floor, she rifles through a paper bag stamped with the local pharmacy’s logo. When she finds whatever she’s looking for, she tosses it at me. “Got you a present.”
I catch the small rectangular box with a frown. When I read the words printed on the cardboard, I swear my heart stops. “No way.”
“C’mon, Sunny.” Willow carefully sits again, her words careful too. “Think about it.”
“But… I got my period last month.” I did, didn’t I? I’m not particularly strict with tracking them—an irregular cycle and an even more irregular sex life allow that kind of slack—but I remember getting it. I’m sure I do.
I think.
Reading the uncertainty on my face, Willow wraps her fingers around my ankle, squeezing gingerly. “I’m not saying you are. I just think you should check.”
Check. Funny word for it. So casual. The same way I check the weather or I check the pressure in my tires, I check if I’m pregnant.
“I don’t need to,” I insist, even as I get to my feet and move towards the bathroom. “I just have a bug.”
“A parasite, maybe.”
I make sure Willow gets an eyeful of my middle finger before I slam the door shut.
For the second time in my life, I unbox a pregnancy test with shaky hands. I sit my ass on a cold porcelain seat with tears in my eyes. I pee on a plastic stick with a dreadful inkling of the outcome. And, after the second longest three minutes of my life, I think the exact same thing when two dark pink lines show up again.
Fuck.
12
SUNDAY
It takesa week to confirm the first and only time we had sex, Cass Morgan knocked me up.
A week to scrounge up the courage to make a doctor’s appointment. A week in which I convince myself it was a false positive. A week that’s promptly proved a colossal waste of time with a vial of blood and a wave of an ultrasound wand.
Another positive and a tiny, flickering heartbeat confirm I am absolutely, indisputably pregnant.
I close my eyes when the technician shifts the screen towards me, tilting my head away. I can’t look, not while it’s wiggling and loud and so very real. I don’t want to be so full of dread and indecision and fear the first time I see what could become my kid. The thing growing inside me doesn’t deserve that and neither do I.
“Baby looks healthy,” the tech says quietly, the concern in her tone only making me feel worse. “Looks like you’re about ten weeks along.”
I choke on a watery laugh. Like I needed a doctor to confirm that. It’s not hard to figure out when you can count the number of times you’ve had sex in the last few years on one single finger. Just like the first time, the parentage of my child is unquestionable.
But I can’t think about that. I really, really cannot think about that. Simply acknowledging who the father is makes me want to vomit. If I think any harder, if I really consider my current situation, I can’t promise I won’t have a full-on meltdown in front of the woman already looking at me like I’m unhinged.
“If you’d like to discuss your options,” she says, again using that quiet, very careful voice, “I can have someone come talk to you.”
I dismiss her with a shake of my head. I know my options. I’m extremely well-versed in my options. I spent my second and third trimester festering in options.
What I really want is to get the hell out of here. As soon as the tech lets me, I sit up, resituating my clothes to cover the stomach that won’t remain flat, won’t remain hideable, for much longer. Barely registering the tech handing me something, I unashamedly flee. I skip the elevator, heading straight for the stairwell leading to the parking garage, and I’m two flights down when I just… stop. Can’t go any further. Feel my legs give out as I collapse on a step. Stare with unseeing eyes at the sonogram crumpled between my fingers.
