I’m about to pass my local chemist when I realize I’m out of shampoo, and if you’ve ever had bleach-blonde hair, then you know you don’t skimp on purple shampoo. One wrong product and I could be rocking yellow hair. Not a good look. Plus, I need to get something to settle my tummy as it’s been sensitive for a few days now. Coming down with something is not what I need right now.
I enter the store and go straight for the shampoo, then quickly find the other items I need. I should probably have gone to my own work to pick up these things, but I’m too exhausted from today to walk the extra four hundred meters.
It isn’t until I pass the tampons that my steps come to a screeching halt. My mind begins to race as I look at the sanitary products I haven’t actually needed for the past two months. I mean, it has to have been all the stress. I’ve never had a regular period and my birth control makes it infrequent. But coupled with the stomach aches and smell sensitivity, it gives me reason to pause.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m a pharmacist—it’s literally my job to pick up on this. Yet here I am, seven p.m. on a Saturday, questioning if the reason I’ve been so off kilter these past two months is because my cheating ex-boyfriend knocked me up and I’ve been too daft to notice it.
Okay, there is a logical way to figure it all out.
I walk two isles over to the pregnancy tests, then make sure to scan my surroundings before grabbing four, as if some alarm is going to go off with a big flashing arrow pointing my way just for touching the things.
While paying for my supplies, I’m thankful that I don’t recognize the pharmacist behind the counter. I don’t miss the look he gives me as he scans each test. I ignore it, muttering thanks before shoving them into my bag and bolting.
I race home as the night sky darkens, no longer taking the time to appreciate my neighborhood and all its beauty.
“Shit. Motherfucking shit fuck,” I yell at the white stick. There is no way in hell this can possibly be happening to me. My hands shake as I put it on the sink, lined up next to three other identical tests. There is no denying what I’m seeing, yet my mind can’t seem to comprehend the drastic reality that is displayed in front of me.
I’m pregnant.
Twenty-five years old, single, and now a looming pregnancy I’m nowhere ready for. I haven’t once held a child. My life consists of my job and my friends—no real responsibilities. How the bloody hell do I fit a child into that mix? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’m not equipped for this.
If I’m honest with myself, the signs have been here for the past few weeks, but I’ve been so desperate to be wrong that I ignored them all.
“FUCK!” I scream into my little bathroom, deciding it’s better to let it all out in one yell than go off like a madwoman for hours and scare the neighbors.
“How the hell did this happen?” I ask before wanting to whack myself.
Of course, I know how it happened. A late night after too many tears and a bottle of whiskey. Beck was there and I was leaving Edinburgh and despite the burning anger I felt inside, I just wanted to feel loved. I think some small part of me was trying to hold onto something we once had, trying to search for the side of him I’d fallen in love with, not the one that crushed my heart. Of course, all I got out of the situation was regret and despair. Well, I guess now this too.
Despite my unease over the whole situation, I pull myself off the bathroom floor, straighten my dress, and head back into my bedroom.
I pull out my mobile and dial Beck’s number, something I never thought I’d have to do again. I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows digging into my knees as the phone continues to ring.
And ring, and ring.
Beck never picks up.
I cancel my movie with Owen. I lie and tell him I have a stomach bug. He’s probably skeptical, but I don’t have the energy to care too much. Mostly, I’ve been centering my days around working and seeing the girls. I’ve been at Saint Street a few times in the past week since finding out, and things with Owen are luckily fine, him not bringing up our canceled plans.
I know I need to get to a doctor’s office and confirm everything, but I’ve been a pharmacist long enough to know I’m definitely pregnant.
After Beck never called me back, I held off, but I think this afternoon I’m just going to have to bite the bullet and try again.
I’m halfway through breakfast with everyone at Saint Street when the smell of bacon sends me running to the loo.
I empty my mealinto the toilet, my heaving a recent occurrence that has come with my impending motherhood. Groaning, I rest my head against the cool bathroom tiles, giving myself a moment to catch my breath. Who knew that a bacon-and-egg roll would send me straight to the bowl of a loo?
I give myself a few more seconds before standing, then turn on the water to slowly begin to piece myself together again. It would be an understatement that keeping this a secret from my friends is challenging. But the truth is, I’m just not ready to tell anyone. I don’t think I’ve even accepted it, to be fully honest.
After rinsing out my
