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Nausea nearly overwhelms me at her words.
I suck in a breath and try to calm myself down. Why am I so stressed about this? I swipe my hand over my forehead.
“Han?” Marci tilts her head.
“I’m fine,” I say, waving a hand. “Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“Not it.” Marci unties her auburn locks then scoops them back into a bouncy high ponytail again. She smells lightly of coconut and sunscreen and it’s making my nausea worse. “So, you were telling me how Savage was in?—?”
I can’t keep it in any more. I get up and sprint to the bathroom. I burst into it and make it to the toilet just in time.
What feels like five meals later, I look up and find Marci leaning against the door jamb, gnawing on her lip. “That bad, huh? I’ll be sure not to tell him.”
“Marce.”
“Han, do you need me to take you to a doctor? I’ve never seen you like this before.”
Another wave of nausea hits me, and I cling to the toilet.
“Han?”
I fight it down, my eyes watering, and look up at her.
“When last did you get your period?” Marci asks.
“My periods are irregular,” I say. “So, I don’t really keep track of them. Why do you…?” And then it hits me.
“This is not happening,” I whisper. “It’s not happening.”
We sit on the edge of my tiny bath-shower combo, the shower curtain mocking me in the mirror over the sink with its happy, vibrant yellow ducks.
“Not happening,” I repeat.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” Marci asks.
“I have POI,” I say. “There’s a remote possibility, but it’s tiny, and it’s wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“This doesn’t happen for women like me.”
“What do you mean, Han?”
I take a breath of cool air—I brushed my teeth and tongue while Marci ran to the drug store and brought back like twenty different pregnancy tests. “I mean, infertility is a serious issue. I get that people can sometimes get pregnant by accident, but usually, it’s a struggle. It takes years worth of hormone treatments, IVF failures, it’s rough. I looked into it when I was hoping that maybe I might be able to have a baby, but even then, the OB GYN said there’s like no chance for me. My best option would be adoption, which is really something I would consider if I met the right guy or I wasn’t about to leave forever but this is just… it’s just not happening. It’s not possible. It’s not fair to other women. It’s not?—”
“Hannah.”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing that thing where you panic ramble,” Marci says, stroking my back. “Do you need me to get you some water? Is there anyone you want me to call? The girls? Do you want Belle and June?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. I feel weird. It’s got to be the flu, right?”
“We’ll know in about thirty seconds.” She points to the first test lying on the basin. “And then in a minute. And then we can do like five more after that.”
What will I do if those tests are positive?
My heart swoops at the idea.
