I’m not that girl who misses things. I keep calendars. I plan. I don’t make mistakes like this.
My throat closes around the thought before it can fully form. The room suddenly feels smaller.
It’s too warm.
Much too bright.
The sound of clinking cups and chatter presses in until panic prickles beneath my skin.
“I… uh… just remembered a meeting.” My voice cracks as I shove back in my chair. The legs screech against the tile, making me wince. I grab my purse, keys, phone—anything to keep my hands from trembling—and force myself upright before my friends can see through the lie. “Talk soon.”
As soon as I step into the chill outside, the warmth vanishes, replaced by a bite of wind. I’m hoping it’ll be enough to clear my head. My heels strike the sidewalk, a staccato cadence that sounds too much like running as Lilah’s question chases me down the block.
Are you sure you’re not pregnant?
I stumble along the busy sidewalk until the harsh glow of a pharmacy sign comes into view. A bus hisses past, and someone laughs into a phone, as if the world isn’t tilting beneath my feet. The automatic doors whoosh open, releasing a blast of sterile air that smells like antiseptic and plastic.
It only makes me more nauseous.
Fluorescent lights blaze overhead as I grab a basket and force my legs to move down the family-planning aisle. Rows of boxes blend into a dizzying array of colors. Condoms. Ovulation kits. Dozens of pregnancy tests line the shelves in neat, pastel packaging.
My vision swims as I reach out with a hand trembling so badly, I nearly knock half the boxes off the shelf. I grab one and then another, just in case I mess up the first test. My fingers squeeze them like lifelines before tossing both into the basket.
A woman passes by, balancing a toddler on her hip. “Hold still, sweetie,” she murmurs, brushing a curl off the child’s forehead.
For just a moment, I stare as a knot forms in my throat.
I’m not that woman.
I never wanted to be that woman.
My dreams were about independence. Control. About building something no one could take away from me. It wasn’t about diapers and midnight feedings. I don’t want to rely on a man who never promised me anything.
The cashier doesn’t bother looking up as he slides the boxes into a plastic bag with practiced indifference. I hand over my card with clammy fingers and then clutch the bag like contraband the second it’s in my possession.
Outside, I barely feel the wind as it slices through my wool coat.
By the time I reach my apartment, my insides are wound tight, my thoughts a tangled roar in my ears. I shut the door and lean against it, willing the world to stop spinning for a few minutes. Just long enough to take this test and reassure myself I’m not pregnant. My breasts ache as I shrug off my jacket. It’s a dull, insistent throb that makes me wince.
Stress.
That’s all this is.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I rip open the first box, the cardboard tearing under my nails.
The directions are simple. Pee, wait, look. My hands continue to shake as I unwrap the plastic stick, do what needs to be done, and set it on the counter. The timer on my phone glows beside it.
A silent countdown.
Three minutes that feel more like an eternity.
I pace the cramped area of the bathroom with my arms crossed, all the while bargaining with the universe.
It’ll be negative.
It has to be.
Tomorrow, I’ll laugh about this.
