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Right now, there’s just as much a chance of me not being pregnant as there is of a life growing inside me. And as long as I sit here, gripping the wheel like it’s a life raft I’m holding onto with all my might, I can brush this off as one of life’s little whoopsies. A close call. A pregnancy scare.
Once I take a test, there’s no pretending I don’t know the truth.
What’s the alternative? Staying in this car for the rest of my life? I need to get this over with. If it’s true, it’s true, and it’s not going to change if I stick my fingers in my ears and shout as loud as I can.
Still, I’m almost quaking as I use the key to start the car, and it takes way more concentration than it should to keep from speeding or zoning out at red lights along the drive to the pharmacy a few blocks from home.
Why am I so nervous? Nobody’s going to judge me for buying a pregnancy test. I’m sure people buy them all the time. But I can’t bring myself to look the cashier in the eye as I pay for the test and a chocolate bar I grabbed at the last second. I might need all the emotional support I can get, depending on how this turns out.
But whatever happens, I’m going to get through it. No matter what.
Though it would be really, really nice if it turned out negative.
22
HARLOW
What a great idea, making these instructions practically incomprehensible when you’re dealing with a woman who may or may not be excited about the potential outcome of the test. Am I supposed to use a cup and pee into that, then dip the stick, or do I pee directly on the stick? It says you can go either way. The cup has to be sterile, though, but I don’t know that my dishwasher gets them that clean.
Wait, what am I saying? I’m not trying to pee into one of the cups I use around the house. I don’t have any plastic or paper ones lying around, either. Looks like I’m peeing on the stick. So that problem is solved.
What a shame there’s so much more to consider.
I’ve got this. Right? I’ve totally got this. Everything’s going to be okay, no matter what the outcome happens to be. I’m a grown woman, I make a comfortable salary, easy peasy.
Isn’t it amazing the things we tell ourselves we’re trying not to freak out about?
“Hold beneath urine stream for five seconds.” Should I get a stopwatch? No, I can count to five. “Replace and leave test face down for five minutes.”
Five minutes? Why not five years? I’m sure that’s how it’s going to feel. Heck, I’ve been back at the house for all of three or four minutes so far, having gone straight to the bathroom and torn the test open without bothering to leave the bag and the chocolate bar elsewhere. They’re sitting on the counter, along with the box and the plastic wrapped stick that’s going to tell me really soon whether or not my entire life is about to change. No matter what the outcome, and no matter what I decide to do, this is going to change me. I can’t imagine it not being the case.
Maybe I should call the guys.
Right away, red flags wave like crazy at that idea. No, they do not need to be part of this moment. I am supposed to help them. That’s why I came to town, it’s why I have this job, to somehow make their lives better. To help them manage their stresses, to work through their blocks, that sort of thing. I seriously doubt calling them out of the clear blue and telling them I might be pregnant would do anything but throw them into a panic. Even if they would want to be with me at a time like this, I’m not going to do that to them. Not until I know for sure what’s happening. No reason to freak them out just because I’m freaked out.
And I am definitely, definitely freaked out. So freaked out, in fact, that when I go to unwrap the test, I almost drop the whole thing in the toilet. I have to close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath before getting everything in order, counting to five and capping the test, then leaving it on the sink.
Five minutes, huh? I’m sure they’ll pass in the blink of an eye.
What do I do now? Stand here and wait? Not unless I want every minute to feel like an hour. I set a five minute timer on my phone and force myself to leave the room, going downstairs and heading straight for the kitchen. When times get tough, clean.
I get to work scouring the sink, grimacing in determination as I do. Like if I scrub hard enough, I can scrub all of this away. Of all times for something like this to happen. I know I shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but there’s still that feeling in the pit of my stomach that refuses to go anywhere. Not to mention the nausea that has re-introduced itself, though more mildly this time. How am I supposed to stress eat when I’m nauseated?
Instead of tearing into that candy bar, I fill the kettle with water and place it on the stove. A cup of ginger tea should help settle my stomach, and it might even help me calm down a little bit. I need all the soothing I can get now.
How has it only been a minute and a half? Is there something wrong with my phone? It’s incredible how much you can pack into such a short amount of time when you’re both anxiously awaiting and dreading the results of a test. Another half minute passes as I finish scrubbing the sink and rinsing it out. I wash my hands, then get a mug from the cabinet and find the tin of loose tea I picked up recently at the farmer’s market. I even bought a pretty, engraved mesh holder for the leaves, which I place in the cup before pouring the boiling water over top. The aroma is strong and fragrant, and I inhale the steam in hopes off forcing myself to calm down. No matter what happens, it’s all going to be fine.
Two minutes to go. Jeez Louise, time has never crawled this slowly. The tea is too hot to sip without scalding myself, so I settle for puttering around, straightening things out, wiping down the counter absentmindedly while an uncertain futureunfurls in my mind. So many questions, so many possibilities. I wish I hadn’t unloaded the dishwasher this morning. That would be a nice way to kill a little time.
We’ve been so careful. That alone should be reason enough for me to brush all of this off as a coincidence. I never skip a pill. I haven’t been on any sort of medication that would make the pill ineffective. I did everything I was supposed to do.
Ninety seconds until I find out whether I’m part of the very slim percentage of the population whose hormonal birth control fails them. What if it’s positive and they don’t believe I got pregnant by accident?
Wait. What am I even saying? I freeze in mid-thought, halfway through wiping crumbs out of the utensil organizer in the drawer. Whose baby is it? If I am pregnant, who’s the father?
Terrific. Because I needed another layer of horror on top of everything else I’m scrambling to handle.
What happens if the other two are resentful? What if the father decides he didn’t sign on for this? What if I go overnight from having three boyfriends to none, and a baby on the way? I unconsciously place a hand over my chest, where my heart is pumping madly. I could end up all alone. Raising a baby by myself. They could all hate me for this. Accuse me of trying to trap them.
