Once I’m in the family restroom, the lights automatically flip on. I let the door swing shut behind me, falling to my knees on the cold tiled floor in front of the toilet. Then, I empty the contents of my stomach in a disgusting brown waterfall.
Blueberry muffins sure don’t taste very good when they’re coming back up your throat.
The knock on the door is almost inaudible as I retch again and again, throwing up the rest of my breakfast. I don’t ask the person who they are nor do I tell the person to come in, but they do and the door softly opens and closes again. Shit. I forgot to lock it. More like I didn’t have time, given the fact that I was spewing my guts.
“Olivia?” comes Petra’s concerned voice. “Are you sick again?”
I breathe in and out a few times before I even think about answering. Once I’m sure that my vomiting has subsided, I stand and flush the toilet, the sound deafening in the silent bathroom. My heels tap against the tiled floor as I walk to the sink.
“It’s not coronavirus, don’t worry,” I say in a raspy voice. “I’m negative for that.” I splash cold water on my makeup-free face and wash my hands, turning to grab paper towels from the dispenser to dry off my hands and face.
“Olivia,” Petra says my name again gently. “Look at me.”
My eyes feel heavy as I glance at her. I’m sure I look as awful as I feel. For the past few days, I’ve been so violently ill that I’ve had to call in sick. My skin feels flushed and sweaty, and I can feel small strands of hair sticking to my neck and forehead.
Yet this is normal because I think I’m pregnant.
Petra sees it the second my eyes connect with hers. She covers her open mouth with her hands, shock written all over her beautiful face. Her dangling earrings jingle as she shakes her head back and forth.
“No,” she whispers. “No way, Olivia.”
I say nothing as she stares at me, but my friend is determined.
“Talk to me, Olivia,” she commands, closing the door behind us so that no one can overhear. Her purple shirt is so bright that it gives me a headache, and I snap my eyes shut. Usually, I adore her vibrant, colorful outfits, but it’s just been a little too much for me lately. “Tell me what’s going on, Olivia, or so help me, I’ll—”
“What, Petra?” I reply in frustration. “What do you want me to say? That I’m pregnant?”
Truth is, I can barely even admit it to myself.
She sighs, her eyes softening a bit when she sees how worried and upset I am over this. “Olivia, I just want to know that my best friend is okay. I don’t care if you’re pregnant. I want my best friend to be happy again.”
I close my eyes at the kindness in her words, letting my shoulders drop a few inches and releasing the tension in my muscles. I shrug my shoulders and open my eyes, slamming my gaze right into hers. “I don’t know if I’m pregnant for sure. But I think I am. From that night with Dr. Monroe about two months ago.”
She nods her head slowly. “Have you taken a test yet?”
I shake my head no and bite my lip. I thought about it, but I’m too scared to face the brutal, harsh truth and confront the mistake I made when having unprotected sex with the gorgeous doctor. What was I thinking? Who does that? A sob tears at my throat, but then Petra holds up a finger. “I’ll be right back.”
I swallow heavily and nod as she exits the bathroom, returning moments later with three pregnancy tests in her hands. I arch my eyebrows as she hands them to me.
“What?” Petra asks. “You never know when you’re going to need one.”
“They’re not tampons, Petra.”
She grins.
“You’re right because they’re more important than tampons, which is why I have them stuffed in the back of my bottom desk drawer. Just in case you ever need another one,” she adds, winking at me while flashing her dazzling blue eyeshadow.
I roll my eyes and chuckle, relishing in the first lighthearted moment I’ve had in a long time. I rip open the first pregnancy test and Petra turns her back to me so I can do my business. As I place the used indicator on the sink ledge, she turns back around.
“Can I ask a question?” she asks after a few seconds of anxious waiting and staring at the desk on the edge of the sink.
I nod my head yes.
“If it’s positive, then whose is it?”
I swallow thickly.
“Randall’s of course. He’s the only person I’ve slept with in the past six months.”
She furrows her brows.
“But you know that Willy Disdale is walking around saying that you guys had sex when you went on that date with him, right?”