Boy, was that weird. I don’t even want to think about where he was going when he left the café, but my instincts tell me that his downward spiral will continue. However, I’ve got plenty of things on my mind. Like why in the world haven’t I started my period? It’s normally like clockwork—I’m on a regular twenty-eight-day menstrual cycle.

Something deep inside me is merging with the darkness of night. My brain wants me to run a few calculations, but my denial is strong. I’m unwilling to think about the fact that I could be pregnant.

I turn into my driveway and park my car near my front porch. I don’t have to drive all the way into my garage because the temperature today was seventy degrees. All week long at school and at work we’ve been talking about the odd variations in the weather. One day it’s snowing, and three days later, we can practically wear our sundresses and flip-flops.

As soon as I’m inside, I fall on top of the couch. I want to watch the next episode of Head Chef Total Domination, but the thought of seeing Randy on TV makes me queasy. Instead, I pull up the calendar on my phone and think back to the day I had my last period. I’m pretty sure it was on a Friday because I worked my shift at the café and then I went to Standards, a restaurant uptown, with Gemma and Sarah, two friends from high school. Both of them are married and pregnant and were grilling me on when I was going to get with the program and join them. Two things happened that made me smile victoriously—the entrees were served, and I had to excuse myself to go to the restroom because I got my period.

From the date of our dinner, I count to the night Randy and I fucked without a condom.

“One, two, three, four…” I keep counting until I reach, “fourteen.”

I gasp and sink deeper into the sofa. I sit very still and try to will my period to come. Maybe it’s delayed because I’ve been so busy with school and then work. I breathe deeply, relaxing all my limbs and then the rest of my body. I repeat, “Come period, come.”

After a while, my eyes pop open. I swear I felt two cramps. I race to my bathroom, pull down my pants, and check. There’s no blood. Grappling with anxiety, I pull my pants back up, walk out to my bedroom, and pace in front of my dresser. I could go to bed and hope when I wake up in the morning, my cycle will have started.

I can’t wait that long.

I rush back into the living room, grab my keys off the coffee table and my purse off the sofa, and head to Walgreens. My hands are trembling during the entire drive. I mean, seriously, what sort of mother could I be? I would have to buy diapers and baby formula. Then there’s preschool and, oh God, how would I handle it if my child were to be bullied? I used to hate to see that happen to kids when I was in school—and boy, does it happen a lot. I never participated in such acts, nor did I need to be friends with kids who did. My dad used to say, “It’s all a personal choice, Gina. If you cross lines, then you’re to blame.” He used to repeat that all the time. It never made any sense until I turned fifteen or so. Then I knew. I would never sacrifice my beliefs and my decency in order to be liked. Fuck ’em. If anything, I stood up for those who were convinced that they couldn’t stand up for themselves, and I mean I literally fought. By the time I turned fifteen, I was already a black belt in karate. Of course I abandoned the practice when I turned sixteen. Naomi thinks I have a problem with staying focused and I should sit down and talk with a therapist about that. She’s right. I am unfocused at times. Now, what sort of parenting skills can an unfocused person like me have?

“I’m fucked,” I whisper as I park in front of the drugstore. Not only that, but if I’m pregnant, my child is fucked. No way—God is more merciful to children than that. But then I think of all the screwed-up households my friends had growing up—and mine wasn’t that perfect either—and I realize being mentally and emotionally stable isn’t a criterion for bringing new life into this messed-up world.

I take a steadying breath before I force myself to get out of my car, and soon, I’m walking under the fluorescent lights of the drugstore. My head feels like it’s in a daze as I go up and down the aisles until I locate the pregnancy tests. For some reason, I’m jolted by an infusion of optimism. There’s no way I’m pregnant. But I still take the most popular pregnancy test brand off the shelf and stroll confidently to the register. I pay, avoiding the look of dread on the face of the woman who rings up my purchase.

* * *

Soon, I’m home and in my bathroom, peeing on a white stick. I’ve already read the instructions, and they’re pretty easy. Pee on the tip, and wait twenty minutes. If a pink plus sign appears in the results window, then I’m pregnant. If a blue minus sign appears, then I’m not pregnant.

I sit the test stick on top of a clean paper towel on the counter, set the timer on my phone for twenty minutes, and wait. I return to the living room and sink deep into the sofa. I’m still feeling pretty optimistic. Sure, I made a mistake by screwing Randy without a condom. Never again. Actually, I’ll never have sex with Randy again. I’m pretty sure he’s hot for Chef Deanna Blume, anyway. I turned off the last episode after he picked her first for his team challenge squad—even when she was on the bottom the week before. When they cut to Randy’s interview, he said he picked beauty before skill. What a dick thing to say and do. Right then and there, I was so over Randy. I felt as if I was ready to conquer life.

New goals. New dreams. Perhaps after I graduate from culinary school, I’ll move to Los Angeles or, even better, Seattle and open my own little restaurant. I would specialize in American and French fusion. Maybe I should open my restaurant in New Orleans. I’ve been saving the bulk of my inheritance for a big move. Whatever decision I make, I have to make sure it’s the right one and cost effective.

I play with the idea of turning on the TV to see if Randy has fallen in deeper with Chef Deanna. I also want to know if he won last week’s challenge and if he’s winning this week’s too. I could check the blogs. That might be more palatable. I spring up off the sofa to get my computer, but the timer rings. Twenty minutes went by so fast. I hightail it to the bathroom but stop to brace myself once I reach the door. This is the big moment. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. After I walk to that counter and see that test, I will no longer be able to delude myself. One last breath, and I go in and look. There’s a pink plus sign.

I look up and stare at myself in the mirror, blinking slowly. My head is light, and I feel as if my spirit has left my body. These results could not be right. No way. Maybe this particular test is defective. Maybe I need to drink some water or something first. I shake my head conclusively. I’ve prayed. I’ve bargained with God. Those results are wrong—I just know it.

I run out of the bathroom, grab my keys and purse, and head back to the drug store. This time, I buy six different tests—three brands, two of each. The same girl from last time rings up my purchase. She looks at me sympathetically, but I reject her sentiment. I’m not pregnant. I can’t be pregnant.

I take my bag and hurry out of the drugstore. I’m aware that I’m speeding as I drive home. I partly wish I would get pulled over by a patrolman—then I could cry to him about not wanting to be pregnant. As if whining and crying to strangers would change my earlier results. Nope, it can’t. It’s going to take more prayer, so that’s what I do.

I promise God a lot if all the pregnancy tests come out negative. I will never have premarital sex again, which in effect will make my church-going mom happy. Heck, I’ll even attend services with her at least once a month. Now, I know church isn’t God’s requirement, but going would make me a better daughter. For my dad, I would sell my Mustang and only drive the brand-new truck. He would love that.

When I make it home, I race to the bathroom and start all over again. I take the first test and wait twenty minutes. My result is a blue cross, which means pregnant, but it’s sort of fuzzy. I force myself to pee on another stick. I wait ten minutes for these results, and my result is a pink cross. I keep going. At this point, my eyes are glassy and my head hurts. I’ve prayed so much that I feel as if God has stopped listening. I’m only clinging to the hope that he’s going to grant me a miracle at some point and one of these tests will show negative results.

I’m pretty sure a few hours have gone by. I’m in the kitchen, drinking water. Four pregnancy tests down, two more to go. I wonder if I should make the ultimate deal with God. My mom, Tessa, may have a line to God that going to church every chance she can affords her. She never rides me about settling down and starting a family, but I know it would make her happy. She’s always mentioning hugging and kissing her grandchildren one day. I’m her only child, so apparently, I’m the source from which they will come. So I press my hands together and close my eyes. God, I’ll do it. I’ll do it for her—one day, not today—ten years from now at least.

I open my eyes and take two deep breaths. Hell, I didn’t even manage to convince myself I was sincere about my vow. So I close my eyes and dig deeper. I will soon find a good guy and make a family so that my mom can have grandchildren. I open my eyes. Thinking those words feels all kinds of wrong, but still, I hold onto the hope that it’s enough to make one of the last two tests come up negative.

I head back to the bathroom and force my bladder to dispense enough urine to pee on both sticks. Twenty minutes later, and I’ll know the results. Twenty minutes later, my life will change for the better or the worse.