We hug, settle, and drink. “Mmm… damn, this mimosa hits the spot,” Ansel mutters mid-sip, already looking half feral with citrus foam on her lip.
Blythe’s sipping a glass of water. I glance at her, brow raised. “You feeling okay,Sinshine? You’re usually two mimosas ahead of Ansel by now.”
She shrugs, stabs at her salad as if it had insulted her. “I’m fine. It’s just…” she sighs. “Sinclair’s being a hardass.” Another sip of water. “No alcohol. No hot tubs. Eat cleaner. Hydrate more. He’s been so uptight ever since we decided to start trying.” She pauses. Smiles tightly. “It’s likehe’sthe one carrying the baby.”
Ansel, ever the smartass, leans back with a dramatic groan. “Theonegood thing about being knocked up? You don’t have to deal with your uterus trying to murder you every month.” Ansel downs the last of her mimosa and asks for a refill. “I swear to God, I am cramping so bad right now, I wish I could just have the damn thing ripped out of me. Just yeet it. Take the whole damn organ.”
Blythe laughs, and I nearly choke on my mimosa—bubbling citrus shooting up my nose. Elegant, as always.
Cramping. Period. Uterus.
Wait.
What day is it?
I fumble through my purse and yank out my mini planner, flipping through the pages like my life depends on it.
Ansel and Blythe just stare—like I’ve grown a second head and named it after a panic attack.
“Wait. No, no, no…” I trace the dates with my fingertip, the color draining from my face.
“Fuck… I am three weeks late.”
Blythe lookswaytoo excited—like someone just handed her a baby shower invite and a free Target registry.
And me? I’m one breath away from sobbing into my overpriced berry salad.
“Oh my god, Stell, are you pregnant?” Blythe is elated.
“No, I can’t be. It has to just be the stress. The rush of the wedding, prepping for summer classes. Yeah, it’s just the stress.”
Ansel reaches over and grabs my hand, steadying the shake.
“Babe, it will be okay. Donovan loves you, and this is good, right? Building a family?” Ansel’s voice is low and calming.
I look her in the eye and whisper, “Ans, I never wanted kids.”
I pay for my part of the bill and walk home. My head is down while I am drawing in my thoughts.
I turn onto my street, and I can see the stoop of my apartment just up the street. I don’t head straight home; instead, I make a beeline for the corner store.
I am walking up and down the aisles, throwing junk food in my basket. I hesitantly walk towards the feminine aisle—tampons, pads, menstrual cups, and there, sitting on the end—my fate.
I am standing in front of the pregnancy tests, reading all the marketing gimmicks. Results two weeks early, digital results—no guessing whether the line is there or not. Why are there so many goddamn options?
Fuck it,I yank two different types off the shelf and throw them in the basket. I see an endcap of Congrats New Mom cards, and I stop.
My mind spirals back to middle school health class. The first time it was planted into my head that I am not fit to be a mother.
Ms. Smith hands every student an egg, drilling the instructions for the next week in our heads. The only thing anyone took out of it was Do.Not.Drop.The.Egg.
We had the egg for two days. I was walking into the classroom, and Molly Adams, number two of the three bees, stuck her foot out and tried to trip me. I started falling forward, and to save face and not get hurt, I threw my hands out in front of me.
I can still hear the splat and then the high-fructose sugary laugh of Elaine.
“Oh my god!” she screeches. “Stella dropped her egg.” She squats down to be closer to my level and plucks an eggshell off the floor. “You would be a horrible mother.”
I ran out of the class crying, the shame washing over me. From that point forward, I knew I didn’t want to be a mom—it's not the only reason, but it’s what started it.
