A positive attitude creates a positive feedback loop—just like in calculus!
Ohmyeverlovingbananas why the hell is this taking so long?!
I should look.
Yeah. I shouldtotallylook.
These tests don’t really take three minutes, right?
I mean, when Belle found out she was pregnant, the strip was instant.
Wham, bam, thank you ma’am; you’re having a baby, let’s party!
Ok. I’m doing it.
I’m walking toward the counter.
I’m looking at the test.
Shoot, it’s flipped so the screen side is down.
I’m pulling the test from the cup.
I’m turning it over.
The test is…
Negative.
Wait… what?
It feels like someone has punched me in the chest. The air escapes my lungs, leaving me hollow, empty.
But, how?
I’ve done everything right. I exercise every day. I drink copious amounts of water and haven’t touched caffeine in months. I take my vitamins, eat foods packed full of folic acid, take my temperature daily, and can literally pinpoint when I’m ovulating.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!
I set the test on the counter, bury my face in my hands, and cry. The sound of my sobs fills the small bathroom, echoing off the tiles as the reality of the moment crashes over me.
The weight of it all feels unbearable, suffocating.
I’m about to wash my face and crawl back into bed when the bathroom door opens and Chase walks in, dressed in only his boxer shorts and rubbing his hand over his buzzed hair.
The faint light from our bedroom window spills into the room, illuminating his disheveled figure. He doesn’t notice my state of distress; he just walks past me to the toilet, slapping my ass along the way.
Should I say something?
Point out yet another failure so that he can look at me with disappointment and make some passive-aggressive comment?
I’ve just finished washing my face when he walks up to the counter to wash his hands. I stare at him in the giant vanity mirror, waiting for any hint of acknowledgment, when he sees the test on the counter between our sinks.
The moment he registers the negative test result, his face transforms from half-awake to accusation and contempt.
Our eyes lock in the mirror as he says, “Another one? Are you fucking serious?”
Dropping my gaze to the counter, I don’t respond.
