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Becca: Probably the chili cheese fries Oakley made.

Me: My girl is used to fine wine and brie.

Becca: Now I’m eating bar food. Have fun and buy Palici a beer.

Me: You paid attention.

Becca: Always you’re “my guy.” Night.

Me: Take some ginger. It settles your stomach. Love you.

Becca: Love you too.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Becca - One Week Later

No, no, no. Not again.

Sharp cramps tighten in my knotted stomach, and I barely make it out of my chair before a wave of nausea covers me in sweat. I bolt for the bathroom next to my office with one hand clutching my mouth, not knowing if I’ll make it another few feet. Kicking the door open, I fight my way into a stall, falling to my knees as I throw up the only thing I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours—coffee and water.

I lean back on my heels, resting my head against the plastic laminate partitions separating each stall. The tile floor feels cool on my shins, and the harsh fluorescent lighting seems to make me dizzy.

Just when I think I’m done, my hands grasp the toilet seat. Gross, I know, but not eating and throwing up has depleted my energy reserves. Each breath a hiccup, and there’s more. I’m left clammy and gasping for air. After sitting for a few minutes, I rise on a shaky foundation with a taste of bile covering my mouth. I rinse my mouth out, then splash the water on my face.

The nausea has ebbed into a dull ache, and I can’t believe that food poisoning from chili cheese fires from a week ago is the cause. As I make it back to my desk, I close my eyes andcatch my breath. When I feel steady, on autopilot, I grab my phone. Checking to see my next appointment, my finger taps the calendar. Four thirty.

Good. I have ten minutes to get myself presentable and prepared.

I stare at the month and can’t believe it’s been nearly six weeks since our island vacation. I swipe back at the previous month and notice my light-green line extending across five days. I freeze—I’m late.

No, no, no.

Pregnancy hasn’t even been a blip on my radar. I count the days since I should have had my cycle, which is well beyond the timeline. The possibility of being pregnant sends shockwaves through my mind.

I can’t be.

Memories of vacation with John cascading over me, loving me without protection. Was it fun? That’s a big fat YES. Was it smart? That’s a big fat NO.

Jerking my purse from the credenza behind me, I fly out the door, yelling to Cecily, “Reschedule the rest of my appointments for the day.”

“But they’re already here and waiting.”

“It's an emergency. Tell them I’ll do their case for free and cancel the rest.”

I don’t wait for her to answer as I rush to the elevators, desperate to reach the nearest drugstore. I look over my shoulder, to the left and right several times, hoping no one I know is around, feeling like I’m a teenager buying a condom. Instead, I’m blinded by the sheer amount of pregnancy tests. Two long shelves.

Ones with one line or two. Ones with a plus sign. But does a plus mean positive you’re not pregnant or positive you are. I opt for the pink boxes and scurry to my condo.

I mumble aloud to no one, “I can’t be pregnant. What willJohn say? This wasn’t in my plans.” I mean it was in my plans but not now when John and I live miles apart.

Like any good student, I read all four pages of the tiny print to make sure I perform the test correctly. Then a wave of laughter hits me, thinking about what Oakley, Lettie, or Madison would say. “Just pee on the fucking stick.”

Realization hits me that my girlfriends are all opposites from me, and so is John. Dennis mirrored more of my personality traits.

I open the box, pop off the endcap, trying to ignore my shaking hands, sit on the toilet seat, and follow the directions. When I’m sure I’ve done it correctly, I set the plastic stick on the counter, and it takes everything I have in me to walk away. I go to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water and pace around my house. Ten more minutes.

My phone pings with a message.