Holding the toilet paper roll in my hands, I sit next to the porcelain bowl, frozen with terror.
“You don’t have a stomach bug,” I whisper aloud. “You’re…”
...pregnant.
I flush the toilet, leap up, and run back to bed, throwing the covers over my head. My brain’s a scrambled mess, my heart is racing so fast I can hear it pounding in my ears, and my breathing is shallow and choppy.
You’re not sick. You’re pregnant. You’re fucking pregnant.
When was the last time I had sex?
Not here…
Not at school…
At home. With Joe. The night before I left.
When was that? What was the date?
I crawl out of my bed and grab my phone off my desk, tapping on the calendar app. I scroll back to September, looking for the exact date I left for school—September 4th…which means Joe and I had sex on September 3rd.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
I’m eight weeks pregnant.
I’m eight fucking weeks pregnant.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Without thinking, I dial Joe’s number.
“Harp?”
Wherever he is, it’s loud. Super loud. I can barely hear him over the din of music and people.
“Joe! I need to talk to you!”
“Happy Halloween!” he yells. “I’m at a party!”
He’s at a party...as he should be. As I should be.
“Happy Halloween…Joe, can you hear me?”
“Harp? I can barely hear you!” People yell, Chug, chug, chug! in the background, followed by a roar of approval. Joe chuckles. “It’s nuts here!”
“Joe, can you go somewhere quiet? I have to talk to you!”
“Can I call you back? It’s really noisy!”
I clench my teeth, breathing through another wave of nausea.
I’m fucking pregnant, I want to yell to my partying, twenty-year-old, college boyfriend. I’m pregnant with your baby! Help, Joe! Help!
“I’ll call you back, babe!” he promises. “I’ll call you back in a few!”
The line goes dead.
I race to the bathroom, vomiting more yellow bile into the bowl, then dry heaving again and again until every muscle in my abdomen aches. By the time I sit down on the bathroom floor with my forehead resting on the toilet seat, I’ve missed a call from Joe.