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It’s impossible.
“You’re wrong,” I effortlessly argue while attempting to sit up a little higher. “I’m not pregnant.”
The young, blond doctor whose real name I can’t quite remember – another sign of having a concussion not being knocked up – sympathetically tips his head to the side. “Miss Winters-”
“Bryn.”
“Bryn,” he corrects at the same time he angles himself to completely face me. “According to your blood test results, you are in fact pregnant.”
“But like I can’t be.”
“You’re a virgin?”
“No.”
“Celibate?”
“No.”
“Then…?” The polite hand gesture indicates it’s my turn to fill in the answer.
“Because I took one of those piss on a stick things that says right on the box – in big bold print – that the results were ninety-nine percent accurate!”
“Ninety-nine percent does leave a one percent margin for era, Miss Winters.”
“Bryn!”
“Bryn.” His maroon covered torso leans slightly forward. “There is a possibility that you and your test fell into that very thin exception percentage.”
Frustrated squeaks are attached to me curling my fingers like claws yet all the extra movement results in sharp pains reappearing in my head.
Fuck.
Can’t move like that again.
Or that fast.
Or maybe at all for a minute.
Two.
Seven.
I momentarily shut my eyes and release a deep exhale.
His test has to be wrong.
If the piss one I took at work earlier this week can be wrong, then so can his!
Unless…unless the one I took in the bathroom wasn’t wrong so much as wasn’t done processing?
I mean I did chuck it the second I saw one line appear because Raquel and Heidi were entering, and I didn’t want them to see me waiting for results.
But like…there weren’t two lines on that test, were there?
There just…couldn’t have been.
“Bryn?” cautiously questions the male in the room forcing my attention back over to him. “How have you been feeling lately? Nausea?”
