I crumple the note in my fist and throw it in the trash.
The day stretches ahead of me, empty and endless. I try to distract myself—I take a shower, I make coffee, I turn on the TVand flip through channels without really watching anything. But nothing helps.
And then, around noon, I feel so nauseous that I bolt up from the couch, rushing to the bathroom. It’s a rolling, insistent wave that makes me break out in a cold sweat, like the one time I got food poisoning years ago.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm on my knees in front of the toilet, vomiting up the coffee and toast I managed to choke down this morning. I heave and retch, tears welling in my eyes, and when it’s over, I slump against the cool tile wall, shaking and miserable.
I’ve barely eaten in the last few days. Maybe that’s why. And I’ve been so stressed. More stressed than any one person should be expected to be, and still function. It makes sense that my body is finally rebelling. Getting sick, even.
But even as I think it, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers something else.
I push the thought away and drag myself to my feet. I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror.
By evening, I feel better. The nausea has passed, and I managed to eat some crackers and drink some water. There's a woman on the security team—Diane—who checks in on me a few times, making sure I have everything I need. I spend most of the night in bed, trying to read but mostly just staring at my phone, hoping Elio will call.
He doesn't.
The next morning, the nausea comes back with a vengeance.
I barely make it out of bed before I'm stumbling to the bathroom, retching miserably. There's nothing left in my stomach, but my body doesn't seem to care. It heaves and clenches until I'm gasping for air, tears streaming down my face.
When it finally stops, I sit on the bathroom floor, hugging my knees to my chest.
Fuck. I count backwards, trying to remember when my last period was. Before the attack. Before the church. I grab my phone, scrolling through the app I use to track it.
I’m two weeks late.
Shit.
No, no, no.
I press my hands to my stomach, feeling my belly beneath my palms, taut and flat. There's nothing there. Nothing to indicate that everything in my life might be about to get infinitely more complicated.
But I need to know. I need to be sure.
I walk to the front door and unlock it. One of the men turns instantly, his brows drawing down.
“You’re not supposed to come outside, ma’am.”
“I know.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “Can you get Diane for me? I need to talk to her?”
The man looks confused, but nods. A few minutes later, after I retreat into the house, Diane comes in, looking concerned.
"Are you feeling alright? You look pale."
"I'm fine," I lie. "I just—I need to ask you something."
She gives me what I think is meant to be a reassuring smile. "Of course."
I take a breath, trying to steady myself. "I need you to get something for me. From a pharmacy. But I need you to be discreet about it. Can you do that?"
Her expression doesn't change. "Of course. What do you need?"
The words stick in my throat. Once I say them out loud, the possibility becomes real. But I have to know. Surely it isn’t this. Surely, once isn’t enough to?—
"A pregnancy test," I say quietly. "I need you to get me a pregnancy test."
25
