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I sank into the shitty swivel chair I desperately needed to replace. I wasn’t going in to work today, but I could at least try to get some shit done at home.
Me: That’s really sweet, but if I have a stomach bug I’d rather not give it to you.
Me: Let me see how I’m feeling in a little while. I’ll let you know.
I shot a text to Emily, too, to let her know why I wasn’t in the office this morning as I flicked open my planner and booted up my laptop.
Tuesday…
Tuesday. Complete Tori’s, Adam’s, Cypress’, Hilary’s, and Daniel’s profiles. Tax calcs. 3 pm appt with Heather. 4 pm appt with web maintenance. 5 pm appt with Angela…
Perfect. Completely doable.
But that red star on the previous Tuesday’s date was glaring at me, and I wanted to throw up all over again.
I must have used the wrong color marker. That can’t be right.
I flipped the calendar back one month, and there it was, twenty-eight days before last Tuesday.
The month before?
Twenty-eight days before.
Twenty-eight days before.
Twenty-eight days before.
Twenty-eight days before.
I was never late.
I was up and moving before I’d even decided. Jacket around my body and wearing nothing but pajamas that smelled of vomit and a pair of old Crocs, I ran out of my apartment with my keys in hand, out into the freezing, wet morning. Ice had formed on the tops of the cars, and as the little droplets of rain fell, it slowly melted away.
The bodega was quiet at this hour. And I was counting on that.
————
I threw up again when I turned the test over and two pink lines stared up at me.
I took four more of them.
Eight more pink lines.
With shaking hands, I shot Adrian a text. So many fucking typos.
Me: Def a bug. Don’t come over. Gonna try to sleep.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I left my phone abandoned on the bathroom counter amongst the discarded pregnancy tests, barely registering Adrian’s reply as panic, and panic, andpanicset in.
Adrian: Shit, I’m sorry. I hope you feel better.
Adrian: Text me when you get up so I know you’re okay.
How the fuck was I supposed to text him later when right then, in that goddamn moment, I didn’t feel like I could even say a word to him without breaking down?
How did this happen?
I’d been careful. I’d taken my pills. I’d been so fucking careful about doing it at the right time every single day. If for a single second, I thought something had gone wrong—if I’d taken it an hour late, if I’d forgotten—I would have run to a goddamn pharmacy for the morning-after pill.
