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The weight of my exhaustion is evident as I trudge into the Calypso, each step feeling heavier than the last.
“Eek!” Sarah’s voice pierces the air just as I’m stepping farther into the café. “Gina, good news.”
Gratefully, I pause, seizing the chance to rest, even if just for a moment. Standing here, I feel as though I could collapse into sleep without warning.
“We’re scaling back to only offering the celebrity chef specials on Fridays and Saturdays. So you can head home because…” Her expression softens into one of genuine concern. “You look absolutely worn out.”
“What? How?” is all I manage to stammer out in my confusion.
My mouth drops open in astonishment, struggling to process Sarah’s rapid-fire explanation. At first, her words float around me, disjointed and distant. But then her words start to crystalize, forming a coherent message.
With a gesture of genuine care, Sarah gently grips my shoulders, her words pouring out in a hurried stream. “Gina, you’ve been pushing yourself to the limit here. Between managing the kitchen, attending school, and contributing to the podcast—which, by the way, you’re amazing at—it’s just too much. I couldn’t stand by and watch you run yourself into the ground. You’re fading away right before our eyes, and it’s got all of us worried sick. So I reached out to Jeremy and Steve. Steve was unreachable, but Jeremy picked up right away. I shared my worries with him, and he was immediately on board. He agreed that limiting the chef specials to Friday and Saturday was a sensible move. He even mentioned that if this adjustment doesn’t help ease your burden, we could consider dropping the specials altogether.”
The revelation leaves me utterly astonished, yet a profound sense of relief washes over me. Questions swirl in the recesses of my mind, yet I find myself unable to articulate them. At this moment, the only response I can muster is emotional as tears of relief well up in my eyes. Without a word, I pull Sarah into a grateful embrace, my heart swelling with gratitude for her intervention. As I bid farewell to my coworkers, their goodbyes echoing warmly behind me, I head to my car, still in a daze from the unexpected turn of events.
The drive home is brief, but it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open and my focus sharp. The exhaustion that has accumulated over weeks, perhaps months, of pushing myself too hard is ready to claim me. Every red light feels like an invitation to close my eyes, and the familiar streets seem to stretch on longer than usual. The thought of my bed, of finally allowing myself to rest without the weight of immediate responsibilities, propels me forward. I urge myself to stay awake until, finally, I’m home.
The moment I cross the threshold of my apartment, my body gives in to exhaustion. I collapse onto the sofa, curl up, and draw myself into the tightest ball possible. Almost immediately, sleep overtakes me.
* * *
Awakening later, I’m disoriented by the darkness enveloping the room. The pressing need for a bathroom visit momentarily pulls me back to reality, yet my mind is consumed by a single thought: Head Chef Total Domination. The mere idea of seeing Randy on my TV screen stirs a mix of anticipation and unease, yet I can’t resist the pull.
I go quickly to relieve my bladder and then return to switch on the television. The digital clock in the corner of the screen catches my eye—it’s 11:32 p.m., long after the show’s 6 p.m. airtime. But that’s no matter; I had the foresight to set my DVR to record the entire series.
Without hesitation, I reach for the remote control on the coffee table. Just as I’m about to turn on the TV, a sharp cramp in my stomach stops me in my tracks. Clenching my hands into fists, I can’t help but feel a sense of triumph. “Yes,” I whisper to myself, believing that my period has finally started. Grinning happily, I’m sure all I needed was some much-needed rest to get my cycle back on track.
Quickly, I head back to the bathroom, pull down my pants, and reach for some toilet paper. My heart sinks as I look down. My initial relief turns to dismay. “Shoot,” I mutter to myself, staring in disbelief at the toilet paper. There’s not even a dot of blood.
Frustrated and confused, I let out a sigh and press my face into my hands. The cramps I felt were unmistakable, usually a sure sign that my period is imminent. Then again, nausea hasn’t been my only symptom lately. I’ve also had tenderness in my breasts. Standing up, I pull my pants back up and walk into my bedroom, feeling restless. I contemplate just going to sleep, hoping to wake to the start of my cycle, yet the uncertainty gnaws at me. Why delay when I could have clarity right now?
With a newfound resolve, I stride back to the living room, snatch my keys from the wall hook near the door, and grab my purse from the sofa. My drive to the drugstore is tense. My hands tremble as they grip the steering wheel, my mind awash with worry. I try to recall the last time I had my birth control injection. Was it just two weeks before the semester began, or has it been two months? Perhaps a month and a half? With everything that’s been going on, it’s hard to keep track. The realization hits me hard—did I inadvertently let my birth control regimen slip through the cracks amidst the chaos of my schedule?
The thought of becoming a mother sends a cascade of questions tumbling through my mind. Can I really take on such a monumental responsibility? The idea of it all makes my head spin—purchasing diapers and baby formula, navigating preschool and the entirety of K through 12 education, not to mention imparting general wisdom to a new human being. How are parents equipped to do all of that? That task seems almost insurmountable, particularly since my own parents were so damn good at it. Given how overstretched I am, how could I possibly muster the parenting skills necessary, especially when I’ve been so preoccupied that I’ve lost track of my own birth control schedule?
“I’m screwed,” I mutter under my breath, the car coming to a stop in front of the drugstore.
Exhaling deeply, I lean back against the driver’s seat, allowing myself a moment to consider any possible positives. There’s one undeniable bright spot: my parents. They would be incredible grandparents, always willing and eager to lend a helping hand. This thought alone offers a sliver of comfort amidst the storm of anxieties swirling within me.
The realization that I might actually be capable of handling motherhood begins to dawn on me. After all, I consider myself a good person, someone who generally gets along well with others. It stands to reason that my own child would have no reason not to like me. And when it comes to the baby’s father, Randy, there’s a lot to be optimistic about. His culinary skills alone speak volumes about his capability and dedication. The Calypso Café has managed to keep his menu alive in his absence, but it’s clear to everyone, customers included, that Randy’s unique touch is sorely missed. The food remains good, yet there’s a unanimous agreement that it just isn’t the same without him. He has the touch, and in more ways than one.
The thought of pregnancy brings me to the realization that Randy needs to know. It’s true that he hasn’t been in touch, but there’s likely a good reason. Perhaps the constraints of being on a competitive cooking show have something to do with it.
“Yeah,” I say softly to myself, comforted by this rationalization. That must be why Randy hasn’t called. It’s a small consolation, but it eases my mind as I prepare to face whatever comes next.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I muster the courage to step out of my car. Before I know it, I’m walking beneath the bright, fluorescent lights of the drugstore. My mind is in a haze as I navigate the aisles, eventually finding my way to the section where pregnancy tests are stocked. A sudden surge of optimism hits me—the idea of being pregnant seems ludicrous now. I’m probably just overworked, and my delayed period is merely my body’s way of urging me to slow down and reprioritize my life.
With a newfound sense of confidence, I reach for the most popular brand of pregnancy test on the shelf. Holding it in my hand, I make my way to the checkout counter. As I walk, I contemplate the future. By tomorrow, I’ll need to decide which of my many responsibilities I’m willing to let go of. Perhaps it should be taking over Randy’s role at the Calypso. While I’ve proven to myself that I’m capable of handling it, that doesn’t necessarily mean I should continue to do so, especially at the expense of my own well-being.
I pay, avoiding the look of dread on the face of the woman who rings up my purchase. A woman, alone, buying a pregnancy test at this time of night—we both know what’s going on here.
* * *
Back at home, I find myself in the bathroom, following the pregnancy test instructions that seem straightforward enough. Pee on the stick, wait three minutes, and then check the result. A pink plus sign means pregnant; a blue minus sign means not pregnant.
After using the test, I carefully place it on a clean paper towel on the bathroom counter and set a three-minute timer on my phone. The idea of watching Randy on TV is far from appealing right now; my nerves are too frayed for that. Instead, I try to empty my mind of any thoughts. A part of me wishes I could just toss the test into the wastebasket and pretend this night never happened.
Ding! The sound from my phone cuts through the silence, marking the end of my wait.
