“Amanda, it only takes one?—”
“I know!” I blurt out before grabbing a box of two pregnancy tests and marching towards the front of the store.
Iris follows. “Maybe you aren’t. Maybe all the stress just made your period all wonky and the nausea is from anxiety. Maybe–”
“Oh, my God. Toblerone’s! I didn’t know they still made those!” I gasp, grabbing one off the shelf. “Also, have you ever had chocolate with potato chips? I tried it the other day because I was craving both at the same time and OH MY GOD I AM PREGNANT!”
I toss everything on the counter and press the heels of my palms to my eyes.
Meanwhile, I don’t even have to look at Iris to know she is smiling at the cashier and pulling out a credit card.
“She’s fine,” Iris says. “She’s just hungry.”
“Put your money away,” I tell her. “I got this. I can write it off on my taxes.”
“You’re going to write a pregnancy test off on your taxes?” the cashier, a young girl with green space buns, a lip ring and gum in her mouth asks.
“It happened at work so yes, yes I am.”
“Oookay!” Iris smiles, grabbing the bag and ushering me out the door. Her smile fades a notch as soon as we get outside. “You know, darling, for someone who is trying to lay low…you are very…colorful.”
I think it’s safe to say I am in full panic mode.
We go back to Iris’ place, and I do the deed. It’s not the first time I have taken a pregnancy test. But this time feels different. For one, I’m not sixteen and I didn’t just take kissing a little too far at a homecoming bonfire with a boy who plays trombone in a ska band. I’m almost thirty now. And if this is for real, I have to face it.
“Distract me,” I say as I pace back and forth across the bathroom floor. Meanwhile, Iris is sitting in her claw foot bathtub eating a scone because she is British enough to have scones on hand. “That stupid little stick is mocking me and I need a distraction.”
“It’s not mocking you. It can’t talk.”
“Oh, it’s going to talk. And when it does, it’s going to be a whole conversation. Do you think it’s been five minutes yet?”
She looks at the analog watch on her wrist and takes another bite. “It’s been 47 seconds.”
“Mother fucker,” I burst out. Iris sits up and faces me.
“Amanda, listen to me. There are worse things than being pregnant with your boss’s baby.”
I roll my eyes down to meet hers. “Oh really? Like what? Name one thing.”
“Your boss could be pregnant with someone else’s baby.”
“Why would that be worse?”
“Because you’re obviously smitten with the man.”
A cackle bubbles out of the back of my throat at the audacity of that.
“You’re crazy.”
“No. I’m right.”
“The marriage was an accident,” I say.
“But the feelings are real,” she counters.
I open my mouth. Shut it again.
Fuck.
