Lyle stays inside, he doesn't move, holding the folder to his chest as he watches me walk out the glass front doors.
Maybe if he sees her stains on my work himself, he'll start to see how she works. Stay on her good side, and you’re her golden goose. Make one mistake, and she's dumping you in the trash.
Hitting the street, I start to feel dizzy. The world is going in and out of a purple haze, and my head is spinning. Resting my palm against the side of the building, I hold myself up.
My stomach is churning and I'm sweating like I just ran a marathon. Keeling over, I grip my knees, and throw up on the sidewalk.
What the hell is going on? Where is this coming from?
A woman stops, asking me if I'm all right. I nod and thank her but tell her I'll be fine.
“Are you sure?” she asks, glancing at her watch. “I'm about to grab a taxi, we can share it if you need to get home. I'm heading toward Staten Island.”
“No, I'm okay. It just kind of came out of nowhere on me. I felt fine last night.”
She smiles, sticking her arm out to flag a cab. “I remember those days. I got sick like you when I was pregnant with my son. Not my daughter though, with her I just got heartburn.”
“Oh, no, I'm not pregnant.” Laughing it off, I give her an awkward smile. “It would be a miracle if I was. I'm covered, no chances here.”
“Nothing is one hundred percent, sweetie.” She holds the cab door, giving me one last chance to share it.
“No, thank you.” I watch her cab pull away, and I stand still, just thinking about what she said.
I don't want to admit she's right, but she is. Nothing is one hundred percent safe. And the thought scares the fuck out of me. I take the pill, so the chances of me being pregnant are slim to none. But what if?
I can't be pregnant, the pill should protect me. . . I'm safe. Right?
Standing up straight, I rub my belly, trying to soothe the tsunami inside. I'm not pregnant. There's no way.
I have felt weird recently.
The hot flashes. The strange cravings. The emotional rollercoaster rides I've been on.
Oh shit. Could I be?
My breathing picks up as the realization starts to swell inside. Looking right to left, I remember there's a pharmacy two blocks away. I don't wait, I head right there.
Standing inside, I'm in the family planning aisle, blankly staring at all the options. Pink boxes, boxes covered in flowers, digital results, lines. There are a million ways to see if you've been knocked up.
This is ridiculous. Does there really need to be so many choices?
Picking up one of the boxes covered in flowers, I flip it over to read the back. All the fluff on the outside seems so unnecessary. I mean seriously, is it a scratch and sniff? Because what the hell do a bundle of daisies have to do with being pregnant?
Setting it back on the shelf, I grab the simplest box there is. It's purple with block letters, nothing fancy. I just want the confirmation that I'm not pregnant so I can go on with my day.
Paying at the counter, I take the bag and go into the bathroom. I'm not waiting one more second. The box says I'll have an answer in three minutes, that's fast enough for me.
Locking the door behind me, I peel open the box, and take out the instructions.
One, remove tester from wrapper.
Two, urinate on colored tip.
Three, wait three minutes for results.
That's easy enough.
Following all the steps, I set the tester on the sink, and pace the small bathroom. Three minutes isn't long on a normal day, but three minutes right now feels like a lifetime. I keep checking my phone, but it's not changing.
This is the longest minute of my life.
“Come on,” I say out loud, gripping the sink and hanging my head. The tester teeters on the edge, but I catch it before it can fall.
My eyes land on the small window where the results show, and I can't look away. I watch. I watch as one line appears, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
One line. Okay, good, I was right. I'm not. . . The thought dissolves as a second lighter line appears next to the first.
No. This isn't right.
“No, no, no. This is wrong.” Talking to myself, I rake my nails through my hair and just stare at the window on the test stick. “No. This is definitely wrong.”
I'll take it again.
Throwing the tester into the garbage, I take out the other one from the box. I either screwed it up, or it got messed up when it almost fell. That's why it isn't right. Somehow, some way, I fucked up the test.
Following the directions again, this time I sit it on the back of the toilet where it can't fall. I'm not taking any chances.
Rubbing my hands together, I walk back and forth in front of the toilet. It's not time yet, and I'm not going to jump the gun, and mess this one up too. All I need is for one to give me a negative sign. Just one.
Pushing a hard breath through my lips, I slide my palms down my thighs to dry them off. I can look now, but fear holds me back. I braid my fingers together, curling them around each other, and rubbing them together anxiously.
All right, let’s get this over with.
Picking the tester up, I hold it straight and steady. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths, and then I open them.
Fuck.
Two lines.
Leaning against the wall, I rest my head back, and close my eyes. That makes two. Two tests, two results, both positive.
I'm pregnant. . .
I'm fucking pregnant.
Sliding down the wall, I rest my head between my knees, gripping my temples with the pads of my fingers. Everything is spinning.
