Sam

I’m pulled from what had been a good night’s sleep, by a fierce pain in my abdomen. I rush for the toilet and make it just in time to heave up everything inside me and then some. I wait by the commode a few minutes before leaving, as some mornings have had follow up bouts.

Eventually, I pull myself up to the sink and rinse my mouth. I feel like shit and can’t believe I’ve caught a bug in the middle of the summer. I want to curl up with Ian, just being near him would help me feel better. Judging by the light piercing through my window and the time on the alarm clock next to my bed he’s at a job site now, probably hot and sweaty, and shirtless… Ugh. If I didn’t feel so damn nauseous, I’d be getting turned on by the thought.

I swipe my phone from the nightstand and head downstairs for coffee. When I enter the kitchen, the half-ish cup of cold coffee remaining in the pot is evidence Mom and Dad have given up any remaining hope of me being home. Can’t blame them. I know I’ve been a ghost. After I get the java situation headed in the right direction, I plop down at the table and tap out a message to Lexi. We had a full-on blow-up/make up video chat after the Fourth of July, and have been back to daily communication since. Don’t get me wrong, she’s totally pissed that I’ve had this super-hot neighbor crush since puberty and I never so much as mentioned his name, or showed her a picture, or invited her home with me so she could hit on him, but after I spilled the details of our summer together and my feelings for him, she came around quickly.

Me 9:27 AM: Ugh. Still feeling like shit

It’s before noon, I know not to expect a response but feel better sharing my misery with someone just the same. To my shock, I get a message back within minutes.

Sexy-Lexi 9:32 AM: Mr 1^st year med school lying next to me wants to know how long you’ve been sick and what are the symptoms???

Me 9:33 AM: OMG – Who is that? And WHY are you telling him about me?

Sexy-Lexi 9:35 AM: Because you have bitched about it for-literally-ever and because he’s super into me and wants to impress me with his DR skills.

Whatever the reason, I guess it’s better than going to an urgent care. Or worse, calling the only doctor I have ever had here—my childhood pediatrician—awkward.

Me 9:38 AM: 2 weeks-ish nausea, no appetite, hurling in the morn….

OH MY GOD NO. It can’t be. I can’t be.

Nervously, I finish tapping the message and hit send.

Three months pass while I sit and stare at the little black screen waiting for a response, like some hybrid magic eight ball and digital pregnancy test, holding my future in the balance.

Finally, my phone pulses in my hand.

Sexy-Lexi 9:50 AM: Are you alone? Can I call?

Fuck.

Me 9:51 AM: Yes

A moment later the phone purrs in my hand, ‘Call from: Sexy-Lexi’ lighting up the screen.

“Lex? Shit. WHAT did he say?” I ask, impatient.

“Are you sitting down? You totally need to sit down.”

“Yes Lex, I am sitting down.”

“I mean, he’s only a first year, but still he is pretty damned confident and said he literally would’ve been able to diagnose while pre-med,” she rambles.

“Say it. Just say it.”

“Ok. Well. When was your last period?”

Fuck. Shit.

“Because he says—it sounds like you’re pregnant.”

Fucking hell. Why’d she have to say it? I know it’s true. I can feel the truth of the words. Besides, it’s not like I’m on the pill, what the hell did I think was going to happen after many weeks of fucking with abandon?

“Hey, are you still there? Did you hear me?” Lexi asks sharply.

“Yes. I’m here. And, it’s been. A while,” I respond.

“Shit babe, what are you going to do?”

“Right now, I think I’m going to crawl back in bed, pull the covers up over my head and hope it goes away.”

“Do you need me to come there? I will book a flight like, right now,” she says.

“Sure, that’s easy to explain to my folks. Mom, Dad, I haven’t been here almost the entire summer, and I have refused to share any details about my activities, but… remember Lexi from school? Well, she’s going to be staying with us. And by us, I mean you, because I’m going to continue being next door.”

I hope I’m going to be next door. What if Ian thinks I did this on purpose?

“Lex?”

“Yeah babe?” she asks.

“I know you haven’t met Ian, and don’t really know anything about him, but … Do you think he’s going to be angry?”

“I. I really don’t know. If he’s as amazing as you describe him, I’m sure he won’t be,” she says.

“Yeah. He is amazing and wonderful. I’m sure he will understand,” I say trying to convince myself as much as her. “I’m sorry, I want to hear all about Mr. Med School, but do you mind if I text you later? I need some time to figure out what I’m going to tell Ian. How I’m going to tell Ian. And my parents. Oh, God. I just need to think.”

“Sure, sure. Say the word babe. I’ll be there. Talk soon, K?” say asks before hanging up.

OK, Samantha, this is not life ending. People have handled this very situation for, like, all of human civilization. Get yourself together, this is going to be fine.

Of course, as soon as I begin to calm myself, reality crashes in on the house of cards I was constructing out of stupid platitudes. I leave to go back to school in two weeks. I will be pregnant my senior year of college. I will be a new, single, mother entering the workforce—if I even make it that far.

I cannot let myself panic until I know for sure, so I grab my keys and my purse and zip over to a pharmacy for a handful of pregnancy tests. I can’t help but wonder how many times a week some woman comes in, still in pajama bottoms and beelines straight to the family planning isle.

One test may be wrong, but three tests from three different companies? I think it’s safe to panic now.

The pressure of it all is overwhelming. While I meant it as a joke, I actually do end up back in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin lost in thoughts and worries about the future.

When I finally look at the clock, it’s just after four pm and while Dad won’t be home for hours Mom certainly will. There’s no chance I’m ready to face off with her about this, but one look at me right now and she’ll be like a bloodhound tracking a scent.

The only place I can think to go, the only place to escape, is the one place I’m not sure I’ll be welcome. Or how long that welcome will last after I come clean about the situation.

IB 4:14 PM: Can you come home? We need to talk.