Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I’m so drained from staying up late last night, I shower and get into bed as soon as I’m done eating with the intent of reading a new book, but I’m asleep before I know it, waking when my alarm goes off the next morning.
Despite over eight hours of sleep, I’m still drained in the morning. What the hell? I must be getting sick. And I’m cramping like crazy. Come on, Aunt Flo. Just show up so I can get this over with and feel better. Stupid hormones.
But she doesn’t show up the next day, or the day after that. I go to bed Thursday night feeling like shit. Cramps, no appetite, and I’m super tired. Just one more day to get through and I can spend two full days doing nothing but sleeping and watching Disney movies.
Getting out of bed Friday morning is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. If Vader hadn’t come and licked me after I turned off the alarm, I never would have gotten up.
I fire up the Keurig while I take care of the dogs, stick my favorite Ariel mug in place, and push the button to fill it. As soon as the coffee pours from the Keurig, my stomach flip flops.
What the hell?
The scent is so strong, filling the air, and making me sick. It’s like the smell of coffee is day-old roadkill in July, left out to bake on black pavement in the afternoon sun.
I want to throw up.
I cover my nose with my hand and press the power button, shutting off the machine before it has the chance to fill my mug. I dump it down the drain and leave the kitchen.
Okay. This isn’t right. I’m one of those people who can’t function without coffee. This has to be a PMS thing, right?
Deep down, I know it’s not.
A little over a month ago, I hooked up with Noah.
And I don’t remember a thing.
I don’t remember if he used a condom. I don’t remember if he pulled out. And right now, I don’t know what to do.
My hands are shaking and I feel like I’m going to pass out. It was one time. The odds are against me, and the stress of life is probably what’s delaying my period.
It was one night. One time.
And I know it’s entirely possible.
I slow as I walk down the aisle. The plastic handles of the shopping basket slide under my sweating palms. My heart is racing and I don’t think I can do this. I should go home and order from Amazon. I can even get next-day shipping, though since it’s getting late, next day will actually be the next, next day.
And I can’t wait that long.
I let out a breath, set my basket down, and flip up my hood. I look like I’m about to rob the fucking place, but I don’t want to risk getting seen. That would be worse than robbery.
I hunch my shoulders and look at the white boxes. Why the hell are there so many different options? I drop my gaze to the price tags. Twenty bucks for a pregnancy test? Really?
Fuck, it doesn’t matter, not really. I’ll pay anything for the peace of mind I’m going to get once this sucker pops up with a big fat negative. Because I’m not pregnant. I do not have Noah’s child growing inside of me, sucking my energy and making me hate my favorite foods.
I. Am. Not. Pregnant.
Jenny and Colin have been trying for a few months and nothing has come about yet. She told me you only have like a twenty percent chance of getting knocked up each cycle, which means I have an eighty percent chance that I haven’t been knocked the fuck up.
By Noah.
Oh my God. I just … can’t. I literally cannot.
I grab a box of the Target-brand pregnancy tests, saving myself a few bucks, and quickly hide them under the random items I didn’t need but had to have from the dollar bins at the store front.
I practically jog to the registers, thankful now more than ever for the self-checkout. I pay for my items, put the basket away, and stop. My heart is still hammering, hands still shaking. I turn, looking at the big red sign that says “restrooms.” I chugged two bottles of water before I came, thinking it wouldn’t hit me until I got home. But since I got nervous and put off walking down the pregnancy test aisle and instead spent thirty minutes looking at Disney toys—yes, the ones for little girls—my bladder is winning. I have a twenty-minute drive home and I honestly do not know if I will be able to make it that long.
Since I’m an adult who is perfectly capable of not peeing my pants, I go into the bathroom. I lock myself in a stall and rip open the test, read the instructions, then sit on the toilet. I stick the test between my legs and … now I can’t go. Nerves are stopping me up and someone else just walked in.