"Good girl," Zane murmurs, low enough that only I hear, and I kick him under the table while my vagina does a happy dance.
Dylan chatters through breakfast about school, about wanting to study engineering, about anything except the fact that he definitely heard us having inappropriate sex and my educational commentary about fertility windows. He's smart, funny, damaged in that specific way that makes him careful with others' feelings.
"So," he says as he's leaving for school, "should I expect you to be here more often? Should I invest in better headphones?"
"Dylan," Zane warns.
"It's a legitimate question. I need to plan my study schedule around your... medical procedures."
"I hate everything," I mutter into my coffee.
"She'll be around," Zane tells him, and something in my chest gets tight.
"Cool. Maybe next time you can explain the ovulation thing more quietly. I got the general idea but the specifics were muffled by the... other sounds."
He leaves, driving a sensible Honda that suggests Zane's influence, and I finally check my phone.
Twenty-three messages from Izzy.
Izzy:BITCH WHERE ARE YOU
Izzy:Are you dead?
Izzy:Are you getting railed?
Izzy:Both?
Izzy:I know about the pharmacy run
Izzy:Tommy told his girlfriend who told her sister who told me
Izzy:FOUR TESTS?
Izzy:Take them
Izzy:Take them NOW
Izzy:He needs to know
Izzy:You need to know
Izzy:Your denial has reached pathological levels
Izzy:I'm coming over if you don't respond
Izzy:I know you're reading these
Izzy:Your read receipts are on you disaster
My blood goes cold. The four pregnancy tests hidden in various locations around my apartment and now in my purse. The ones I've been too terrified to take because Schrödinger's pregnancy is easier to handle than confirmed disaster.
"You okay?" Zane asks, noticing my face.
"Fine," I lie, shoving my phone away. "Just Izzy being Izzy."
"She still threatening to give me the shovel talk?"
"Something like that."
