Page 12 of Risk (Gods #3)

I wake up and wait to see if the nausea is going to hit or if I’m finally over this damn stomach flu.

I’ve been sick since that day I threw up at school.

Bless Aaron. He made good on his word. Got me back to my studio, and while I got my pajamas on and crawled into bed, he went to the pharmacy and brought me back the essentials—Pepto-Bismol, Gatorade, crackers, and applesauce.

He made sure I was settled and promised to call me later.

Which he did, and he emailed over that day’s notes.

I slept pretty much the whole day and night.

But I still felt drained and shitty the next day, and I was puking again.

So, I figured it had to be a virus or the stomach flu.

I tried to call in sick to the diner, but my boss was pissy about it, saying he was already short-staffed, so I had to go in and spent most of the time puking in the restroom.

He got mad about that as well and then sent me home because he said me puking was bad for business.

No shit, Sherlock—hence why I’d tried to call in sick.

When I called the next day and told him that I was still sick and wasn’t coming in for my shift, he didn’t argue.

I’ve had to miss quite a few days of classes, which isn’t great, as I’m only in my first semester. Thankfully, Aaron emailed me over the class notes and offered to come by and check on me and keep me company, but I told him that I didn’t want to pass on whatever this was to him.

I did wonder if it was something I’d picked up from the girls at the party.

With them being in school and day care, they’re bound to pick up all sorts of germs, but when I texted Cam and asked if the girls were ill, she said they were fine and asked why I was asking, so I told her I had the stomach flu.

She offered to come take care of me, but I told her to stay away. I didn’t want to get them all sick too.

I’ve been lying here for a good while, waiting, and nothing so far. No nausea.

Hmm, everything seems okay. I think I’m finally okay.

I sit up to get out of bed and—

Nope.

My stomach roils, and I haul ass and make it to the toilet just in time.

“Ugh,” I groan as I finish throwing up in the toilet.

I push to my feet and flush the toilet. Then grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and start scrubbing my teeth clean.

I’ve been feeling like crap and throwing up for over a week now. How long does the stomach flu last? Usually three to four days, I think. I pause brushing my teeth, grab my phone, open up the Google app, and type in the search bar, How long does the stomach flu last?

The results pop up, and I scan the text. Okay, so it says here that symptoms last just a day or two, but occasionally, they can last up to fourteen days.

I set my phone on the counter beside the sink and resume brushing my teeth.

So, I’m about ten days in with this stomach flu, meaning I could have another four days of this. Great.

Although it’s weird because I’m sick as hell in the morning, all the way through lunchtime, but then I start to feel okay by late afternoon. If I had the stomach flu, wouldn’t I be sick at all times of the day and night?

I pause my brushing and stare at myself in the mirror.

Could I be…

No. Surely not.

That’s just crazy thinking .

I finish brushing my teeth, rinse, and then reach for the mouthwash. My arm brushes my boob, and— oof —that feels tender.

I must be close to getting my period. My boobs always get a little tender around that time.

When was my last period?

I take a swig of mouthwash, and while I’m swishing it around my mouth, I grab my phone again and open up the Calendar app. I always mark an X in my calendar to keep track of my periods. I scroll back through the days, waiting for that little X to appear on one of the days.

And I keep scrolling.

And scrolling.

It finally appears—almost seven weeks ago.

That can’t be right. I must have made a mistake. Because if this is right, then I’m three weeks late for my period. And I’m never late.

Never. Ever.

I start to feel queasy again.

I double-check the date again.

It’s there in black and white.

I’m three weeks late.

Oh, fuck no.

No.

Nope.

There is no way on God’s green earth that I could be pregnant.

There’s only one person I’ve had sex with, and that was Kaden.

And I’m on the pill, and we used a condom.

It’s not possible.

At all.

The thought itself is actually ludicrous.

I can’t be pregnant. I just can’t. It’s not possible.

I mean, it’s possible. Contraception is not a hundred percent effective. But we used two types of contraception—the pill and condom—so that would make the odds of ineffectiveness super low, right?

Right.

I wouldn’t be unlucky enough for both forms of protection to not work the one time I had sex with my older brother’s friend. The guy I’d been crushing on for years. The guy who didn’t want me.

No way I am that unlucky.

But I should probably do a test, just to be on the safe side. It’s not going to hurt anything, and it’ll get rid of the little niggle of doubt in my mind.

Okay, so I’m gonna go to the drugstore and buy a pregnancy test. Bring it home and pee on the stick.

I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that it’ll come back negative.

And then I’ll have a good laugh about how crazy this moment was where I thought I was possibly pregnant with my brother’s best friend and the man who left me alone in bed and ghosted me.

But in the unlikely zero-point-one percent chance that it comes back positive, then I’m allowed to freak out.

But like I said, I’m not that unlucky.