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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 and catch 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 will John 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.

Cecily: All appointments rescheduled. Can I do anything for you? Is everything okay with your boyfriend?”

Me: What?

I don’t even remember talking to her about John, although he sent me flowers a few days ago, and the card was opened.

Hope my girl is feeling better-J

Cecily: You know I follow hockey. He’s in some trouble. I’ll send you the article.

Me: Okay.

Now that I think about it, I didn’t talk to John last night, and he hasn’t texted me today, which is out of character. He texts me all day intermittently whenever he has a free moment.

I love you.

Thinking about you.

Maybe we’ll make the playoffs and play the Notes.

Do you like pistachios?

Or saw a lizard, and it reminded me of the first night I protected you.

Checking my watch, I’m relieved it’s time to check the test. I’ll worry about John later.

I put one foot into the bathroom and sigh, flipping through my emotions.

Panic and fear winning out. Picking up the test, it shows a plus sign and from what I read, it means I’m pregnant.

My body feels heavy with the weight of what’s happening hanging over me.

Again, like a good attorney, I make sure the test is correct by taking four more. All five have big, fat plus signs. I lean against the bathroom cabinet and slide to the floor with all five tests fanned out in front of me. Recognition strikes me, jarring me to the bone.

I’m having a baby.

Silent, but both terrifying and happy thoughts roll through my head, and I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

Then I cry. At this point, I don’t know if they’re happy tears or not. I press my hands against my abdomen with a million racing thoughts. Relief that I know why I’m sick. Fear over telling John. What if he doesn’t want a baby? Hoping he does.

My world has just changed in an instant. It has shifted toward not what’s best for me but for the tiny life growing inside me.

I pull myself from the floor and call Lettie.

Why Lettie? Because this is an area where I feel like she’s an expert and has a local obstetrician.

She promises to keep a secret and gives me the name of her obstetrician, after she’s finished squealing of course.

It seems I should have told John first, but I want to know for certain.

Maybe I don’t want to blow up a man’s life if I bought a batch of expired tests.

Dropping Lettie’s name enables me to get in to see Dr. Sasha, just two days later, who then confirms by a blood test that I am most definitely pregnant.

Now what? I still haven’t talked to John, and my workload is heavier than ever since I rescheduled clients yesterday.

Between my nausea and the amount of research needed to be done, I’m exhausted by the time I get home.

However, I do call John and leave a message.

“Hey, we missed each other for a couple of days. Everything okay? I have something to tell you. Call me when you can. I know you have a game tonight. I’ll try to watch. ”

Exhaustion wins. I don’t watch and I sleep like a rock until four in the morning with another trip to the bathroom. I check my phone in the darkness. There’s nothing from John—not a single text or message.

My heart drops all the way into my pregnant belly.