Page 9

9 weeks later

I burst inside my dorm with the plastic pharmacy bag crinkled in my grip. I chugged two bottles of water on the way back from the store, and my bladder is ready to burst.

Dumping the contents out of the bag onto the couch, I sort through the various boxes. I got all kinds of tests. Strip tests. Plus and minus. Pregnant or Not Pregnant.

It’s a bit excessive, but I wasn’t sure which would be best. I’ve never taken one before, and I shouldn’t have to now. Since the day I stopped by Luke’s to give him his gift and we ended up in bed, we haven’t had sex again. And even that day, we were careful. I always take my birth control, and he used a condom.

Though I wouldn’t have minded making it a regular thing, he’s been insistent that we take it slow and not make whatever is growing between us about sex.

Growing between us—like a child growing inside me .

Bile rises in my throat, which only makes my panic spiral more pronounced.

Pregnancy equals vomiting, so am I feeling sick because of my racing thoughts or because there’s a tiny human inside me?

I’m not opposed to kids, but I’m still in college. I thought I’d be at least thirty before I had my first.

I scoop up the box containing the test that will read either Pregnant or Not Pregnant and lock myself in the bathroom. The lock isn’t necessary, since I live alone now, but it makes me feel a little better.

My cycles have always been consistent, especially on birth control, but I’ve been so busy with my last semester of college that I didn’t even think about it being late until I was digging in the bathroom cabinet for my hairspray and spotted an unopened box of tampons.

Breaths coming quickly, I scan through the directions and do my business. Then I dip the stick, recap it, and wait.

Within seconds, the walls of the bathroom close in on me, so I stride out and pace my dorm room.

There’s no way I’m pregnant. We only had sex one time. Something’s just up with my body, and my period is a little late.

A little late? More like a lot late.

I can’t have a baby.

I’m not ready to be a mom.

I don’t even know how to be a mom. My mother clearly hasn’t modeled any good parental skills for me.

I want to be a mom—a good one—but not now. Not yet. I’ve barely figured out my life. I don’t even have a job lined up.

There is my inheritance, but chances are, if I am pregnant, my parents will figure out a way to snatch that from me. They can be petty.

I take a deep breath and check the time.

My fate should be decided at this point.

Once I’m inside the bathroom, I close my eyes and count to ten.

Those ten seconds are all that separate the Bertie of before with the new Bertie. The Bertie who looks at the test that very clearly says Pregnant.

My head swims, and I quickly stumble my way to the couch, fearful I might pass out.

Pregnant.

There’s… there’s a baby inside me.

I don’t have the mental capacity to cope with this.

There’s no stopping the tears that spring to my eyes and course down my cheeks.

What am I going to do?

How am I going to tell Luke?

A fear that I’ve never felt before settles heavily in my stomach. Not a fear of telling him—knowing Luke, he’ll take it in stride like he does everything else, but a fear of the unknown.

I don’t have any experience with kids—nothing to gauge how I might handle taking care of a child.

Another thought sinks into my brain, this one coming to me more slowly. I don’t have to go through with this.

But almost as soon as I have the thought, I dismiss it.

This might not be planned, but I… I want this baby.

Am I scared? Absolutely.

Terrified would be more fitting.

This wasn’t the plan, but plans change for a reason.

I press my hand to my stomach.

A baby. My baby. Luke’s baby.

I see it then, when I close my eyes. The future. Holding an infant in my arms in the hospital. Cheering a child on when they say their first word and take their first step. First days of school and bike rides and days at the beach. Birthdays and scraped knees and soft kisses to their head.

My fear isn’t gone, and there’s a good chance my emotions will never recover, but I’ll be okay.

We’ll be okay.

But what if the test is wrong?

Panic swamps me all over again.

Stupidly, I dumped out the little cup I peed in, so if I want to take another test, I’ll have to start again.

Standing, I smooth my shirt, then I shuffle to the table and scoop up the whole assortment of tests and head back to the bathroom.

I need to be sure before I…

A. Continue to freak out.

B. Plan out a child’s whole future, only to find out that, oops , the test was faulty and I’m not pregnant.

C. Tell Luke I’m pregnant and then have to tell him oops false alarm .

D. All of the above.

While I wait to look at the handful of tests I’ve taken, I do a quick Google search. Within three minutes, I know. Not only is every test positive, but the internet has made it clear that false negatives are far more likely than false positives.

It’s true, then.

I’m pregnant.

Fuck .

The extra tests were supposed to make me feel better, but here I am, bursting into tears again.

I cover my face with my hands.

It’s going to be okay.

But today, I’m allowed to freak out and sink into my feelings.

Tomorrow, I’ll feel better.

Tomorrow, it’ll be okay.

Tomorrow isn’t better.

Neither is the next day.

I freak out about the what-ifs.

What if I hurt the baby when I drank a few weekends ago?

Is Advil harmful to fetuses? Have I taken any recently?

What if I’m not a good mom?

It’s not until I go to the doctor with my best friend Rosie by my side that I begin to feel better.

Baby is safe. Baby is good. Baby is healthy.

I can do this.

Hopefully we can do this.

I just have to tell Luke…