Page 193 of Unhinged

As I shake, I sit down, trying like hell to remember bleeding that didn’t exist this week. It’s highly unusual for my uterus to forget to unless there’s a reason not to give it up.

Son of a bitch. This can’t be happening.

Don’t panic.

I take deep breaths. I stand. I sit. I pace. There’s no way it could be anything else, but just late. We only stopped using condoms days ago. It’s impossible to be late this fast.

I breathe a slow breath as I force myself to calm down. We were careful. I’ve always been on the pill. I take it at the same time every day. I’m fine. He used condoms.

More deep breaths.

I haven’t been here long enough for anything to happen.

I check the time and remember Greg is meeting me here for lunch in an hour. I can’t be on edge like this around him. He’ll know something’s wrong.

I go into Dr. Abramson’s office since the door is open. When she looks up from her desk, I say, “I need to take an early lunch.”

Her smile slips. “Simone, are you okay? You look pale and upset.”

“I’m great!” I giggle nervously. “Just had a long night.” Fuck me to France.

She restrains her laughter. “I’m sure.” I’m on a gravy boat straight to hell. She’s thinking of me screwing her son. I can’t believe I said that shit.

“Simone?”

“What?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” No! I’m not fucking okay!

I laugh, and it’s fake, creepy as fuck, and squealy since I’m on the verge of tears. “I’m great.”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?” No way in hell. This problem could flip your life onto its head.

I nod. “Of course.”

I grab my coat and purse and book it out of the office, past Elijah, Heifer Two, and three patients in the waiting room. I head straight for my car and drive to a nearby Walgreens, where I buy a pack of gum, a Diet Sprite, and three different brands of goddamn pregnancy tests.

I shake so badly. The cashier probably thinks I’m a crackhead suffering from withdrawal and now in some serious shit.

But I am.

I nearly fall on my face as I run up the stairs to my bedroom. Frenchie is on my bed, but I skip her for now and lock myself in the bathroom. I read each test’s instructions. Though it’s best to use my first-morning pee, I need answers now.

I pee on each stick, but since I’m shaking, I almost drop them into the toilet as I switch them around mid-pee. I then snap the caps on them and push the boxes to the side of the sink in case I need them for more tests, validation, or a reason the tests could be wrong. I also check for any sign of Aunt Flo, but she’s MIA. As if they’re bombs, I set my phone timer and stay far away from the tests for three minutes. I go into the shower and sit on the bench, curling into a ball. Maybe by hiding my stomach, it’ll foil the tests.

How damn ridiculous.

I close my eyes and concentrate on each breath. This isn’t happening. This can’t happen. It’s impossible if his cum wasn’t in my…

Oh, no.

Fuck, no.

The timer goes off, and my shaking kicks up five notches. I’m frozen on the shower bench. The next time I look at those tests could change my life forever. Greg’s future. Oh, my God. I can’t mess up his dream because of something I did.

Reluctantly, I get up but move in slow motion. When I get closer to the sink, I cover my eyes and peek through my fingers, but I can’t see anything. I mentally count to three and drop my hand, but I’m numb.

“So, Mrs. Rodwell, how many eggs will you let Greg fertilize?”

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