Then, I think of Marla. I see her every weekend now at the shelter. Against all odds, I still manage to drag myself there because I would feel even worse if I didn’t, and suddenly, guilt comes over me. Marla’s a woman who lost everything: her husband, her job, and, eventually, her home. However, she’s still one of the kindest, most positive, most badass people I’ve ever met. So many people in the homeless community are like that: strong, powerful, and utterly unwilling to let their horrific circumstances dictate their happiness. Why can’t I be like that?
Suddenly, I realize I’ve been utter moron. Sure, my feelings are valid, and it’s okay that I’m sad. But if people can have their whole lives turned upside-down and keep moving on, I can get over some dude dumping me, right?
I’m feeling marginally better when suddenly, my stomach gurgles. I narrow my brows. Did I eat something weird? I have been feeling a little queasy the past few days, on and off, but nothing worth noting. I hope I don’t have a stomach bug.
Or maybe…
“Oh, God.” I frantically scoop Toodles off my lap and dump him into Rachel’s. Clutching my hand to my abdomen, I sprint to the bathroom and manage to close the door halfway before I empty my stomach’s contents into the toilet. My throat immediately feels raw, and my tongue is reminiscent of sandpaper. I retch several times, my entire body seizing until my stomach cramps in on itself. Then, when things seem to have calmed down, I lean my forehead against the cool toilet lid, breathing hard.
“Laurie?” Rachel knocks gently on the door. “You okay, buddy?”
I nod, and then realize she can’t see me. “Yeah, I think so,” I say.
“Can I come in?” When I don’t respond, she pushes the door open and leans into the room, looking at me with concern. I flush the toilet so that she doesn’t have to see anything gross, but I still don’t have energy to do much else. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, and my stomach churns again uncomfortably.
“Laurie…” Rachel whispers, and I burst into tears.
“I know!” I cry. “I know. But, oh, God, what am I going to do if I’m pregnant?”
I weep in silence for a while, still flung dramatically over the toilet, like a Disney princess who’s made one too many bad decisions.
“Laurie,” Rachel says after a while, “you have to tell him. You haven’t spoken to Tate in months, and I know you didn’t part on the best of terms, but he deserves to know.”
“But I lied to him about so many things!” I cry. “I don’t think he’s going to forgive me just because I’m pregnant.”
“He deserves to know, no matter what,” Rach reiterates in a gentle tone. “It might not be the dramatic make-up that you’re hoping for, but maybe he’ll still want to be involved with your child. His child. You haven’t slept with anyone else, right?”
I snort, despite myself. I’ve barely been able to pull myself out of bed, let alone invite someone else into it.
“Well, there you go,” Rachel says gently. “Then it has to be his. And you’re obviously in love with him, and it’s not like what you did was that bad. Yes, you lied to him, but it’s for a good reason: you didn’t want to be treated like a rich girl for once. Is that so bad? You wanted the chance for someone to get to know the real you, and not as Miss Moneybags. It just happened to be in a very unusual way. Right?”
I nod silently.
“Come on, Laurie,” Rachel says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “Go talk to him. Who knows what will happen?”
My shoulders slump.
“He’ll reject me, that’s what. He’ll tell me to go away and never come back, not to mention throw in a few epithets. I’m sure of it.”
“Laurie,” Rach says in a reasonable tone. “You know that’s not going to happen. This is his child. Plus, the alternative is that your baby never knows its father. You don’t want that, do you?”
Pain stabs my heart and tears spring to my eyes once more. But my friend is right, and I take a deep, shuddering breath before raising my head from the toilet.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll talk to him then.”
10
Laurelin
* * *
Standing at Tate’s door, I feel like I’m caught in a dream--or a nightmare, come to think of it.
It’s a cold, blustery day, and I’m bundled up in my winter coat, the hood up against the swirling snow. After two positive pregnancy tests, I immediately checked in the mirror for a bump, but there’s nothing yet. My winter coat still fits, albeit a little more snugly than usual. Everything on my body seems the tiniest bit swollen and bloated.
I stamp my boots against the steps, trying to keep myself warm. I imagine that it’s much warmer inside my lover’s house, but I’m still prepared for the worst: that he’ll close the door in my face, or not open it at all. After everything I did, I’ll be shocked if he gives me the time of day. But I’m holding out hope--if not for me, then for my unborn child.