Page 267 of Ricardo

I wipe at my face.

“I don’t have a test.”

“I can get you one.”

My stomach flips.

“Now?”

“If you want.”

I stare at the breakfast tray, at the toast with two bites missing, at the tea going lukewarm in the cup, at the folded clothes on the chair, at Ricardo’s bed where he slept beside me and left before I woke.

“I don’t know if I want to know,” I whisper.

Victoria’s hand settles over mine again.

“You don’t have to decide this second.”

I nod.

But I can feel the decision already being made inside me.

Unavoidable.

Just like everything else.

Victoria somehow manages to get me a test.

I do not know how, as we’re both on lockdown right now. I sit at the small table by the window while she steps out, and for the first few minutes, I only stare at the place where she was.

The room is too quiet without her.

Ricardo’s room is not cold, but I feel cold anyway. His shirt is still on me, soft against my skin, too large, sleeves pushed up because they keep swallowing my hands. The borrowed clothes Victoria brought sit folded on the chair near the bed, but I have not put them on yet.

My hand moves to my stomach.

I pull it away immediately.

Then I put it back.

There is nothing there to feel. Nothing different. Nothing certain. My body is my body. Tired, frightened, emptied out by shock and sickness and grief.

But once the thought is there, it will not leave.

I start counting days.

Everything blurs. The gala. The office. The storm. The first time Ricardo touched me like he had been holding himself back for weeks. The nights after. The mornings.

Then the calendar shifts into sudden clarity.

My breath catches.

I am late.

I press my fingers to my mouth and close my eyes.

Stress can do that. Stress can delay things. So can lack of sleep. So can fear. So can nearly being shot in your own apartment while your best friend bleeds onto your dress.