"I know. I'll—I'll get a new packet. And I'll be more careful about where I keep it."
But even as I say it, doubt is creeping in.
I get a new packet of pills the next day. I hide them in a different drawer, under some textbooks, but three days later, they're gone again. This time, I know I didn't misplace them. Someone took them.
There's only one person who has access to my room. Only one person who would have a reason to take them.
I try to push the thought away. I try to tell myself I'm being paranoid, that there must be another explanation. But I can't shake the feeling that Romeo is behind this.
I manage to get Plan B from the campus health center, just to be safe. I take it immediately, in the bathroom, making sure it's actually in my system before anyone can interfere.
The relief is overwhelming. At least this time, I've protected myself. At least this time, I've maintained some control over my own body. But the doubt remains.
So two weeks later, I make an appointment for an IUD. It seems like the safest option—something that can't be stolen or tampered with. The appointment is scheduled for Thursday afternoon. I mark it in my calendar and set three reminders on my phone.
On Wednesday, I get a call from the health center.
"Hi, Savannah? This Student Health calling to let you know that your appointment for tomorrow has been canceled."
My blood runs cold. "Canceled? Why?"
"It says here that you called this morning to cancel. Is that not correct?"
I feel my stomach churn. "No. I didn't call. I didn't cancel anything."
"Oh. Well, that's strange. Let me check—" There's a pause, the sound of typing. "It says the call came from your phone number. Are you sure you didn't?—"
"I'm sure. I didn't cancel. Can I reschedule?"
"Of course. Let me see what we have available. The next opening for an IUD insertion is—" More typing. "Three weeks from now. October 15th."
Three weeks. Three more weeks of risk. I’d like to tell myself that I’ll tell Romeo no until then, that I’ll make him wear a condom, pull out… but the truth is that I know I won’t do any of that. I’m as addicted as he is, as desperate to feel him inside of me, that feeling of him throbbing in me when he comes, the thrilling danger of what we’re doing that feels so good in the moment and terrifies me afterward.
"That's fine. I'll take it."
As I hang up, my hands are shaking. Someone found out about the appointment and called from my phone. Someone who had access to my phone.
It can’t be Romeo. I can’t believe that.
But who else could it be?
I confront Vivian that evening, my voice shaking. "Have you been going through my things?"
She looks up from her laptop, startled. "What? No. Why would I?—"
"My birth control keeps disappearing. My appointment got canceled. Someone is—" I stop, trying to control my breathing. "Someone is sabotaging me."
Vivian's expression shifts from confusion to concern. "Savannah, I haven't touched your stuff. I swear. But—" She hesitates. "Have you considered that maybe it's not me?"
"Then who?" I refuse to believe it’s Romeo. He’s never forced me to do anything. He’s always been worried about me. He doesn’t control me—he wouldn’t…
"I don't know. Who else has access to your room? Who else would have a reason to—" She stops, and I can see understanding dawning in her eyes. "Oh my God. It's him, isn't it? That guy you've been seeing."
Fear lances through me. I thought we’d been careful, making sure Vivian was never home when he was here. She knows I’m engaged… and if she were to say anything… "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Savannah, I'm not blind. You've been sneaking out at all hours. You come back looking—" She stops, clearly uncomfortable. "You're seeing someone. I don’t think it’s your fiancé. I’m not judging, just saying… whoever it is, he has access to your room. He knows your schedule. He?—"
"No. He wouldn't. He wouldn't do that."
