Page 47 of The First Love Myth

Zoey squats down next to me. “Can you stand?”

I attempt to lift my head, and my stomach turns over again. “No, definitely not.”

Okay.” She sits down next to me and rubs my back. “What can I do?”

I glance at my sister. What is she doing here? It’s early on Friday night, and she has a life.

“Can you get my phone?”

She pulls it off the vanity and holds it out. Right, because I was getting ready for my date before this happened. I fumble for a minute before finally getting Spencer’s number on the screen and putting him on speakerphone.

“Hey, babe,” he says after one ring. “I’m just changing my shirt, and then I’m heading to you.”

“I’m sick,” I croak, glad he can’t see me right now with my arm braced against the cold toilet seat. “Stay far away.”

“Again?”

Why do people keep asking me that? Yes, again. Still. Whatever. My consternation must show on my face because Zoey laughs.

“Oh. good, Zoey’s there,” he says. “Is she staying, or do you need me to come?”

I silently plead with my sister. She’s holding a fountain drink from our favorite take-out spot, which usually means she’s intending to sleep here, but I can’t take any chances. No fledging relationship should have to survive vomit.

“I’ll be here,” she says evenly.

“Call me if you need anything, please. Feel better, babe.”

Somehow, Zoey gets me off the floor and into the living room. She forces a giant cup of tea on me and some crackers before curling up in the armchair. I sip the tea, a minty green mixed with chamomile. Magic tea, my mom always called it. I’m surprised our dad remembered such a small thing and passed it on to Zoey.

“Can I ask you something?” Her eyes don’t quite meet mine, but I nod, and she takes the deepest breath, as if she’s about to ask after the mysteries of the universe and isn’t sure she wants to know the answer. “Are you pregnant?”

“What?”

She rings her hands together. “It’s... We’ve lived together for several weeks now, and you haven’t gotten your period.”

“That’s not uncommon for me.”

“But now you’re throwing up, and last night at dinner, you ate your pickle.” Her voice rises, becoming shrill the longer she talks. “You never eat pickles, and when I offered you some of my chicken, you looked at it as if it was rancid milk.” She pauses. “Is it possible that you’re pregnant?”

Holy. Shit.It’s not possible. No way in hell am I pregnantnow. “I only slept with Spencer a week ago.”

And we were safe.

Zoey cringes at my words but presses on. “And Julian?”

I put a hand to my stomach. There doesn’t seem to be any extra pounds hiding there, but even if—I can’t even think it. It’s like my brain skips right over the possibility. Except, well, we weren’t safe the night I left or any night before. It can’t be. This is some awful, cruel joke.

“I’ll go get you a test.” She stands, but I hold up a hand to stop her.

“There’s one in the bathroom.”

Isn’t this conversation supposed to go the other way? The nineteen-year-old has the pregnancy scare, not the thirty-four-year-old. I palm my face. My mind swims. A baby. It’s everything I want. But not like this. Not now when everything is completely up in the air. But if I’m puking and having cravings, that means I’ve been pregnant for a while. And if I’ve been pregnant for a while, then Julian is the father. And if Julian is the father, what does that mean?

“Come on.” Zoey holds out her hands, but I don’t move to take them.

The thought of standing, of taking that test, is paralyzing. There’s no going back after that. I bite hard on my bottom lip, tasting the saltiness of fresh tears. There’s already no going back.

“I can’t,” I say through my tears.

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