Page 66 of Sinful Beauty

“Bread. Crackers. Go with something light.”

If I’m this nauseous for nine months, how will I work? And speaking of work, I wonder what the maternity policy is for someone working on a Visa? Would it be the same as other employees or?—

“Would your baby have citizenship?”

“No, it doesn’t work like that.” My head hits the back of the wall and I close my eyes. “I don’t think. But maybe, yes, because of Tristan. But I should probably ask to speak to the attorney working on my citizenship.” My lower lip trembles and I’m pretty sure it’s in reaction to telling Tristan.

“Tristan might be happy. Didn’t you say he’s older?”

“Early forties. But it’s not like that with us. We’ve just been having fun.” I bury my face in my knees and the tears dampen the pajama pants I’m wearing.

“But you said things are getting more serious with him. You guys spend every night together, right? This might not be bad news to him.”

“No.” I visualize Tristan’s expression when I tell him. Those cool gray eyes, his stern expression. He’s still a playboy. I had been fooling myself, hoping we might grow into something, and I have a special fool’s gift to show for it.

My arms cross over my belly and then still. There’s a baby growing in there.

“If you want this baby, you don’t need him.” She says the words that I already know. She’s right. I don’t need him. I’ve been living frugally my entire life and I’m a master with a budget. And since I haven’t been sending money back to Brazil, I’ve been saving.

I have a job. They won’t fire me for pregnancy. That gives me at least eight months to plan. In a worst-case scenario, I return to Portugal.

It’s affordable there and my experience with Lumina as an executive assistant will make me valuable, as does my British education. I have options. And I’m ten years older than my mother was when she had me.

I can do this. If I decide that’s what I want, I have choices. This doesn’t need to be the end of the world.

I also haven’t taken a pregnancy test. I should take a take a test.

“Lucia. You still there?”

I sniffle, snag a piece of toilet paper, and blot my nose. “Yeah. Look, I’m going to buy a test. If it comes back negative, I’ll feel like a real fool.”

The nausea subsides and I feel lighter somehow, like maybe this could be the most ridiculous thing ever.

“When was your last period?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know this sounds ludicrous, but sometimes I don’t bleed in my off week.” Scratching my scalp, I will my memory to kick in. “I definitely didn’t bleed last time. Or at least not much. Maybe a little spotting.”

“So you’ve still been taking the pill?”

What she’s asking is how long have I been taking the pill that I might’ve been pregnant? I might’ve hurt my baby.

“Go get the test. First things first.”

She’s right. I need that test.

The walk down the street to the apothecary is a blur, both visually and mentally. Fresh air cools my salt burned cheeks. The person behind the counter smiles at me, takes in what I’m sure speaks to my emotional state of being, looks at the box I’ve handed over, and averts his gaze.

I rush out, breathing in deeply. The nausea subsides with each breath of crisp air. Storm clouds hang overhead, but there are pockets of bright sun shining through. I’m uncertain if the storm is passing us, or if it’s blowing in. I haven’t paid attention to the weather in days.

At the house, Emelia lifts her cigarette in greeting. The smell swirls up my nostrils and the nausea resurfaces. My fingers clutch my shopping bag tight to my side.

“Schätzli?” I avoid looking into her kind blue eyes, because I know her concern will bring out all the tears. She’s a wonderful landlady, but we’re more acquaintances than tight friends. And what would she think? A cross dangles from her neck.

“I’m okay,” I reassure her, head down. “I’m not feeling well and might be contagious. Best stay away from me.”

I rush to the door, not giving her a chance to say more. She has to be suspicious, but I don’t have it in me to do more.

In minutes, I’ll know exactly how big of a fool I am. Either I’m a fool for getting worked up over nothing, or I’m a fool for getting myself pregnant.

---