“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins at me and walks to the door. “She’s not my type, anyway.”
“She’s not too young and too dumb, you mean?”
He shrugs like I’m not wrong. “Coming?”
“I need to use your bathroom.”
“Enjoy.” He shoves his feet into shoes and disappears, leaving me alone in his apartment.
I sit and there trembling for a moment. I stare out the window, trying to get myself together. Why am I having this reaction? Jealousy courses through my veins and all I want to do is scream.
Was that girl prettier than me? Does he want to fuck her more than he wants to fuck me? Because he wants to still—at least I think he does—but ever since the wedding, we haven’t mentioned it, not even once. Not even in passing.
We still tease. We still joke. But he carefully, so carefully, avoids any mention of physical contact.
And he sleeps with half the goddamn city.
I storm into the bathroom, pissed as hell, and slam the door. I lock it and wipe steam from the mirror.
I look tired. I look stressed.
I take a pregnancy test from my purse and stare at the plastic wrapped stick.
What the hell am I doing?
Before I let myself overanalyze, I sit down, rip it open, and do my thing. Once it’s finished, I set it on the counter and stare.
What thefuckam I doing?
This is not an ideal situation. Far from freaking ideal. But the fact of my circumstances vis-a-vis being entirely knocked up only occurred to me last night, and I need to know if I’m pregnant or not before I can keep going about my life. I’m sure I’m not, and my period is just abnormally late, and I’m getting mild cramping and I’m bloated and I feel fucking hotall the timefor no reason.
It’s definitely not Baptist’s child implanting itself in my uterine wall and demolishing my hormones.
This is dumb. This is so dumb.
And yet the fact of my situation stares me in the face.
I’m standing in Baptist’s bathroom probably twenty minutes after he fucked some random girl taking a pregnancy test that, if it’s positive, will absolutely ruin my life and probably ruin his too.
Goodbye, Thompkins Webb Productions. Goodbye, my dream of working with Tony Cowan.
Hello, new baby.
I close my eyes and count the seconds until I open them again.
And scream.
Literally scream.
Because the test is positive.
“No, no, you’re fucking kidding me. Absolutely not.”
I take another one. Positive. I’d take a dozen more, but I only bought a two-pack. I stare at the twin tests and feel my life ending. I feel it in my fingers and toes, a buzzing, tingling, existential horror.
I’m pregnant with Baptist’s baby.
“He can’t know.” I look up and stare at myself in the mirror. “He can’t know,” I repeat.