I’ve been too nervous to try to date and be intimate with anyone since then.
I think about that vague comment I made to Camden about having sex outdoors before I practically sprinted away from him.
Total lie. I’ve never done that. But I panicked and didn’t want to tell him the truth.
That I’m a twenty-four-year-old virgin who’s terrified at the idea of ever having sex.
That familiar shameful feeling roasts me from the inside out. I focus on my breathing, grateful for the distraction. I’ve spent enough time feeling embarrassed that I’m almost halfway through my twenties and have never had sex…and probably never will.
When I get up to the front of the line, I try to steady my voice, despite how sick and exhausted I feel.
“I’m here to pick up a prescription for Ellie Michaelson.”
I hand the teenage pharmacy technician my insurance card, and she starts pounding away at her keyboard.
“Do you have your co-pay?” she asks.
“My insurance covers the full cost.”
She nods and keeps typing. After a second, she stops typing suddenly and frowns at the computer screen.
“Um…” She goes quiet.
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
She turns to me, a pitying look on her face. “I’m sorry, but it looks like your insurance coverage must have changed recently. It doesn’t cover this medication anymore. You’ll have to pay full price.”
My stomach sinks. “What?” I shake my head, confused and shocked. “But I just contacted my insurance earlier this month. They didn’t mention any coverage changes. They just changed how often I can refill my prescription, but nothing else.”
The pharmacy tech just shakes her head. “I’m really sorry. A couple of the bigger insurance companies have made changes to what medications they cover recently. It’s been a shock to a lot of folks,” she says.
My head is pounding now as I try to figure out what to do. “Is there a different medication that’s similar to the one I’ve been taking that my insurance covers?”
She hesitates. “Yes, but we’re currently out of it. We won’t get it back in stock until after the weekend. I’m so sorry.”
I dig through my purse for my credit card. “How much is my medication without insurance?”
I brace myself to hear some insane cost. When the pharmacy technician doesn’t say anything right away, I know it’s going to be bad.
“Fifteen hundred dollars for a one-month supply,” she says.
I hold back a sob. There’s no way I can afford that. I don’t even have half of that in my bank account.
I shake my head, scrambling for a way to solve this problem.
“Can I pay for just a few pills? Just enough to get me through the next few days. Then I can come back on Monday and get a refill with the medication that my insurance actually covers.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it’s a struggle with how hard my head is pounding and how panicked I feel about my insurance coverage changing.
The pharmacy technician nods. “Yeah, of course. How many pills would you like?”
“Three, please.” I say in a weak voice. That should be enough to get me through the weekend. I’ll take one pill tonight and one tomorrow. That should get rid of this awful headache. But if itlingers or turns into a full-on migraine, I’ll take that last pill, and that should get me through to Monday when I can come back for the full prescription.
“That’ll be three hundred dollars.”
I almost drop my credit card. “Three hundred? But if it’s fifteen hundred for a month supply, shouldn’t it just be fifty dollars a pill?”
The pharmacy technician hesitates. “That’s the agreement our company has with the insurance companies. It’s their policy to price individual pills higher to encourage people to get a full prescription.”
