My stomach twists. "What?"
"Your last period. When was it?"
"I don't—why would you—"
"Because I had a friend who spent three weeks thinking she had a stomach bug before she realized she was pregnant." Carmen sits next to me. "So I'm asking. When was your last period?"
I could lie. Should lie.
Instead, I say, "Six weeks ago."
Silence.
Then: "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh."
"Do you have atest?"
"No. I was going to go buy one, but then I started throwing up again, and—" My voice cracks. "Carmen, I can't be pregnant. I just started this job. Everyone will think I can’t—"
"Stop." Carmen's voice is firm. "Nobody's going to think that. You earned this position. You're brilliant. And if you are pregnant, that doesn't change anything about your qualifications."
"It changes everything."
"It changes some things," she corrects. "But not the important ones." She stands, grabbing her purse. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Drugstore. You need a test. You need to know for sure before you go off the deep end."
"I won’t. I’m firmly in the shallow end, I promise.”
Carmen gives me a look. "You're sitting on an air mattress in yoga pants, looking like you're about to cry. You’re definitely about to go over an edge.”
She's not wrong.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Okay. Let's go."
Twenty minutes later, we're back in my apartment with three different pregnancy tests because Carmen believes in being thorough.
"All three?" I ask, staring at the boxes.
"All three. Different brands, different sensitivities. We want definitive results."
"You sound like you're conducting a research study."
"I'm applying strategic thinking to a crisis situation." She hands me the tests. "Now go. I'll wait here."
The bathroom feels smaller than usual as I open the first box with shaking hands.
My goal was simple…
Find out ifI'm pregnant.
What I didn't plan for was how absolutely terrifying the answer might be.
I pee on all three sticks—which is harder than it sounds when your hands won't stop shaking—and set them on the counter.
