I should tell her. I should tell her everything—about Grant, about Florence, about the fact that I can't stop thinking about him even though I wrote that stupid note and walked away. About how I've been lying awake at night replaying every moment, every touch, every word he said.
But if I tell her about Grant, I'll have to admit that I'm terrified. That I haven't heard from him since I left. That I don't know if the silence means he got my message and agreed it was a mistake, or if he's angry, or if he's just moved on.
"It's jet lag," I say instead. "And stress. I'm fine."
Poppy is quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small pink and white box.
My heart stops.
"No," I say.
"Emma—"
"No. Absolutely not. That's insane."
She sets the pregnancy test on the coffee table between us with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb. "You've been exhausted since you've been back from Italy. You can't keep food down. You're emotional. When's your period due?"
The question lands like a punch. I try to remember, counting backward, but my brain feels like it's moving through fog. I've never been super regular, especially when I'm stressed, and the past few weeks have been nothing but stress.
"I don't know. I’ve been so stressed! I’m not sure I remember having it even last month! But that’s happened before when I get crazy stressed."
Poppy's expression softens. "Em. Just take the test."
"I can't be pregnant." The words come out too loud, too defensive. "I always use protection. It's impossible."
"Protection isn't a hundred percent effective."
"It's like ninety-nine percent. Those are pretty damn good odds."
"Which means one percent of the time, it fails." She pushes the box toward me. "Just take it. Then we'll know for sure, and you can go back to blaming jet lag."
I stare at the box like it might bite me. The panic that's been lurking at the edges of my consciousness for days suddenly roars to life. Because taking the test means admitting there's a possibility. And if there's a possibility, then everything I've been building—Essence, my independence, my carefully constructed life—could come crashing down.
"I can't," I whisper.
Poppy takes my hand. Her fingers are warm and steady, anchoring me. "Yes, you can. Whatever it says, we'll deal with it. Together."
The word "together" nearly breaks me. Because that's the problem, isn't it? If I'm pregnant, I won't be dealing with it alone. I'll have to tell Grant. And eventually my mother and father. And everyone will know that I slept with my dad's best friend, and I'll become exactly what I've been trying not to be my entire life—a scandal, a cautionary tale, a girl who made a mistake and paid for it.
But Poppy's looking at me in that way only your best friend can, and I find myself reaching for the box. My hands are trembling as I pick it up.
"Do you want me to come with you?" Poppy asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The bathroom is tiny, and it feels even smaller with both of us crammed inside. I read the instructions twice even though they're straightforward, stalling for time.
"Em," Poppy says gently. "It's just peeing on a stick. You've got this."
I take a breath and do it.
The three minutes we have to wait feel like three hours. I set the test face-down on the counter, and we retreat to the living room, where I pace and Poppy sits on the couch, tracking me with her eyes.
"It's going to be negative," I say. "This is ridiculous. I'm not pregnant. I'm just run-down and stressed and?—"
"Emma."
"—and I haven't been sleeping well, and the time change really messed me up, and I've been working too much?—"
