Chapter Six
Lauren
Six weeks later…
I AM DRAGGING. Completely and totally dragging ass and no amount of coffee can wake me up today. I shouldn’t have stayed up past my bedtime reading, but I had to find out what happened to Edie Harker, the vampire hunter. Had to. And one more chapter led to finishing the damn book
I’m paying for it now.
Though, truth is I’ve been feeling run down for a week now. I’m not sick, don’t have a fever, yet something is … off.
“Late night?” Julie asks me sit down for lunch.
“Too late,” I say, and poke at the beans and rice that came with my tacos. There’s a little hole-in-the wall Mexican restaurant close to the clinic and is my go-to when I’m too lazy to pack a lunch. I get the same thing every time and love it, but today, Lunch Combination #12 isn’t appealing.
She laughs. “Don’t tell me you had another ‘one night stand’ with some mystery man again.”
I glare at her. “It’s possible, and it really did happen.”
She just laughs again. “Sure it did. Sweet little Lauren went home with someone she didn’t know, and never got a name.”
I purse my lips and shake my head. I hadn’t told a single soul—not even my best friend Rachel—about Noah. But I couldn’t keep the entire situation a secret. I can’t keep secrets to save my life. So my friends know I had naughty dirty sex with some hot guy I met at a bar. But that’s all I tell them, and really, that’s all I can tell them.
I assume the sex I had with Noah was naughty and dirty. And probably sloppy and wobbly; since I was too drunk to remember it, I was too drunk to do, well, anything remotely sexy. In all honestly, I probably got the rug burns on my knees from falling, and then I passed out under Noah as soon as we both finished.
“I live on the edge, duh,” I say with a smile and set my fork down, unable to eat anything in front of me, and drink my lemonade. I can’t get enough of that.
Soon enough, I’m busy rewrapping bandages, inserting an IV for the eleventh time into the leg of a beagle that somehow manages to pull it out as soon as our backs are turned, and prepping for surgeries.
Finally the day is over. I’m exhausted, and my back hurts from hoisting heavy dogs up and down the surgery table all day. I yawn the whole way home, stopping for takeout so I don’t have to cook.
“Sorry, guys,” I say to the dogs. “I’m too pooped to take you for a walk.”
Vader cocks his head at the word “walk,” and I feel guilty. It’s a nice night, with a clear sky and warm air. But I just can’t.
“You had plenty of play time today, and I have a short shift tomorrow. You’ll be fine for one night.” I pat my leg and head to the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll give you an extra treat, okay?”
If there a better word than “walk,” it’s “treat.” He trots ahead of me. Sasha follows, and I toss them both a handful of treats before getting myself a drink and falling onto the couch. I watch a re-run of Once Upon a Time while I eat.
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.
I close my eyes. They don’t know what I’m doing, but I better hurry up or they will think I’m pooping, which embarrasses me for some reason but at the same time shouldn’t matter at all. Everyone poops.
Finally, I’m able to go, and I count to five then pull the test out, recapping it and watching the little white screen darken. The instructions say to wait three minutes before looking at the test. I count to ten and look.
The blue test line pops up right away. There is nothing next to it. I relax. I’m not pregnant, see? I knew it and now I can go home and stop worrying. In fact, I’m sure my period will start tomorrow and I’ll laugh at myself for all this anxiety.
I’m about to throw the test in the little metal trash when I look at it one more time.
Holy fucking shit balls. Is that a second line?
No. No, no, no.
I bring the test closer to my face. I see a faint shadow. But it’s not a line. So I’m not pregnant, right? I close my eyes and count to thirty again. It hasn’t quite been three minutes, but I look again anyway.
There is definitely something there, making a little plus sign. If I am pregnant, the line would be bright like the rest line, right? Crap. I don’t know these things.
There is one more test in the box. I’m about ready to rip it open and take it when I remember that I just went pee. Double crap. I’ve never wanted to have to pee more in my life than I do right now.
But I need to know.
I stash the possibly positive test in my purse and leave the bathroom, going into the little cafe. I order a blue Slushy and a big pretzel. Both actually sound good, and the smell of butter and salt makes me hungry. I nibble on the pretzel, so nervous I can hardly eat.
I do a bit of online research while I gulp down the Slushy. It seems that tests with blue lines can have an “evaporation line” that gives the illusion of a positive test. Pink line tests are a bit more reliable, and the digital ones are fool proof. Also, chugging something like I’m doing now can dilute the pregnancy hormone and give you a false negative. I should test again in the morning.
Though, there is no fucking way I can wait that long.
I finish my pretzel and drink, and get up. I take my bag to the car, then go back inside, praying I don’t run into anyone I know. I don’t waste any time. I get another basket and head to the personal hygiene aisle.
I end up spending seventy dollars on pregnancy tests. I clutch the white shopping bag to my chest as I walk to my Jeep, heart in my throat. The drive home stretches forever, and I’m crawling out of my skin when I get stuck by a train. I’m such a wreck that I don’t even listen to music.
Finally, I get into the house, let the dogs out, and put the boxes of tests on the counter. Each came with two, oh—this one has a bonus so three!—and I take one out for now, saving the other for the morning.
I take the used test from my purse, lay it on a napkin, and scrutinize it. Like any sane person would do, I take a picture with my phone then play with the color contrast to see if that’s a line or just as shadow of where a line could be.
I come up undecided.
There is nothing to do but wait and test again. I try to do my normal routine, play with the dogs, shower, make a lunch for tomorrow, that sort of thing, but I keep going back and looking at the one test like it might change. Not knowing if it’s actually positive or negative is driving me up the fucking wall.
About an hour and a half later, I’m staring at a counter full of tests. I flipped them all upside down, not wanting to look at them until the full amount of time has passed. On some level I know this is crazy, taking so many tests. I can’t believe I spent so much on them all. I should have gotten the expensive digital one from the start and would have known one way or the other without analyzing every little shade of blue.
I’m sure I’m not the only one, and I know there have been countless women on both sides of the fence desperately wanting to know if there is a tiny life force inside of them or not. But I have to know. One way or the other, I’m finding out. I check the time. Five minutes have passed. I stand and slowly walk the two feet from the edge of the tub to the sink, feeling like it’s D-Day.
I want to call Katie and have her come over, holding my hand as I flip the tests. I hate doing stressful stuff like this on my own, though if the tests turn out all negative, then I’ll have gotten her all riled up for nothing, and she’ll never let me live it down.
Because I’m Lauren Winters. The responsible one. The one always prepared, always early and on time. I’m not crazy or spontaneous. I like to stay home and watch Disney movies, play video games online, and chat with my friends via Facebook PM rather than face to face. I’m the last one you’d expect to worry about an accidental pregnancy.
Things like this don’t happen to me.
I reach out, hands shaking as I flip over the tests.
I’m Lauren Winters. The responsible one. The last one you’d ever expect this to happen to.
And I’m fucking pregnant.