Page 30 of Size Queen

11

Noelle

Iget myself into a nice, satisfying routine of work, working out, and sex with Damon. For a week straight, from sunrise until late at night, I was productive and crossing into realms that I was unaware existed.

I’ve never known a man quite like Damon before. Soft yet aggressive, stern yet timid, chill and yetsohot… I always feel lucky whenever we spend time alone together, and luckily, I’m able to see him every day. Being a businessman and gang head hasn’t removed his desires of the flesh, and he always allows more than enough time to properly fulfill both of our needs…

The week was over in what felt like a blur (I was having more than enough fun, so time felt meaningless). No amount of time was enough for us whenever we were together, so this only made the times apart more exquisite. The anticipation was already brewing nicely, and it was promising a steamy, sexy weekend.

Then of course, Saturday morning rolls in, and I feel nauseous and sore. I’ve been feeling a little funny over the last couple of days, but I didn’t think much of it. I was usually in a hurry to a shoot or still in bed with Damon whenever my mornings would start lately.

On this day, with no work and waking in my own bed alone, I’m able to fully absorb the sick. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.

Hmm… Cramps, queasy, aches, feeling more tired… add in some vomit sessions and I could swear I’m showing early symptoms of pregnancy…!

I derail the train of thought before it gets too out of hand. Although, it was on the tracks long enough to cause worry. So, instead of allowing my nerves to get the best of me and add more to my miserable morning, I decide to get out of bed and take a pregnancy test just to know for sure.

I don’t know if it’s the sick already in me waiting to expel out, or if the foul smell from the kitchen garbage is the catalyst strong enough to pull it right out, but either way, by the time I get the pregnancy test from the bathroom and get a drink of water, I’m throwing up and unable to stop.

I feel so weak after just a few seconds. I plop myself down right on the kitchen floor to proceed my upchucking. I write it off as me just feeling sick, but each time I try to stand myself back up, it’s a chore. Getting up out of the floor seems as difficult and objective as scaling a mountain.

This shouldn’t be so hard… maybe I’ve got food poisoning…

The false hope I’m chewing on gives me the strength to stand back up (while stifling my vomit). I waddle my way to the bathroom where I proceed to pee on my stick to await the results of my pregnancy test.

Nervous doesn’t begin to describe my feelings. My period still has yet to start, and we didn’t wear condoms every time… On the times we went without, he always pulled out. But you don’t have to be a doctor to know that the pull-out method isn’t always totally effective…

A minute passes, but it feels like an hour. I know that the tests always take a few minutes to register correctly, but I wish the results were more immediate. I wonder if any woman has ever had a heart attack during the waiting time in fear of the worst-case scenario.

Not only am I ill-equipped to be a parent, but I can’t picture someone like Damon being a father. He’s not just a confident biker who has things his way—he’s in charge of a dangerous gang of other bikers who are probably much less civilized than their suave leader. I’m still unaware of the full scoop of Damon’s “club life,” and I’m intent on keeping it that way. But having a child with him would seriously complicate… everything.

Two minutes pass, and still no answer. Would I even tell Damon if I was pregnant with his child…? How can someone in that life be a responsible parent to any baby, much less his own? Or what if things went bad and he wanted custody of the baby and got it because he’s well-known in Florida?

I can’t stop weighing theoretical situations. As I stare down at the test hopelessly, sure of the outcome, I begin to tear up. I cry, teardrops falling on the test.

My dreams of modeling are done. If I’m pregnant, I can’t model anymore. If I’m out of the game for even a few months, it’s going to be damn near impossible to get back in. I could only hide it from the agency for so long…

If I’m pregnant… don’t panic. Don’t break things off right away with Damon and make him suspicious. Slowly break it off and figure out the best place to raise my child.

I can’t tell Damon I’m pregnant… I can’t raise a baby in a toxic world like that. Maybe I’m not pregnant—I could be freaking out for nothing…

But I’m not freaking out for nothing. The test finally presents its results. I don’t know why I’m in such shock. I knew I was pregnant before I even peed on the stick.

I’m lostin thought for hours over my life-changing revelation, wondering, among hundreds of other things, what to do next. Soon it all becomes too overwhelming for me to handle alone.

Although it’s her day off as well, I have to call on Sabrina. By midafternoon, it’s feeling less hot outside, and I’m able to move about comfortably, so I decide to test my stamina and head out for some fresh air.

Sabrina and I meet at one of our usual spots near the big pier in South Beach. She can tell that I’ve been crying, which instantly breaks the dams holding back my tears. I fall apart on her, barely able to verbalize in coherent sentences what all I’m now facing.

I tell her about the pregnancy test coming back positive, that Damon is the father, and about how I’ve considered including him in the baby’s future. I cry and groan for what feels like hours, constantly getting the attention of those around us.

We walk down the shore, letting the warm ocean sweep across our feet. Despite living in Miami for many years and being so close to it, I often take the beach for granted.

“I thought about not telling you at first,” I say to Sabrina. “I mean, eventually you would have figured it out—”

“Uh, bitch, you better tell me,” she snipes.

“Hey, Ididtell you. I wouldn’t have been able to hide it from you anyway. You’re my best friend.”