Page 6 of This Means War

I donotfeel better in the morning. Instead I wake up with a jolt, my body screaming at me to get to the bathroom. As I heave into the toilet, beads of sweat form on my forehead, and misery washes over me. I’m officially sick on my brother’s wedding day. Crap.

To my surprise, though, once I’ve finished emptying my stomach of all the nothing inside of it, I feel better. Shaky and a little weak, but the nausea seems to have subsided. Standing, I eye my pale reflection in the mirror and wince. I don’t look good. My hair is a rat’s nest, my skin is clammy, and my eyes look sort of haunted after their recent viewing of the inside of a toilet. The only positive I can find is that my stomach actually looks slightly concave thanks to my having skipped dinner and thrown up this morning. If I can manage to put it on, I might actually look pretty good in my tight bridesmaid dress. Definitely better than if I were bloated or on my period.

Time freezes as those words settle over me. On my period. Dread fills me and a burst of adrenaline shoots me out of the bathroom and over to my bedside table where I whip open my phone screen. I tap my way into the calendar app and there it is, a red dot pasted onto March 20. The red dot thatmeans ‘period expected’.

My knees give out and I sink onto my bed. Today is April 2, and my period never came.

“Lydia, you awake?” My mother’s voice drifts in from the other side of my door. “It’s almost time for you to leave for your hair appointment.”

“I’ll be right out,” I call back, amazed that my vocal cords still have the ability to produce sound. Numbly I stand and walk to the bathroom. Auto-pilot forces its way past my shock and turns on the shower, but shock elbows its way back in when I step under the warm water only to realize I never took my clothes off. Sputtering and very wet, I turn the shower off to remove my now soaked clothing.

Once I’m properly attired, or rather un-attired, I get back in the shower and attempt to give myself a pep talk like the ones I give my runners before a meet. I open with, “You are not pregnant,” and then just break down into incoherent sobs. Not my best work.

When I’m all cried out and the water’s gone cold, I wrap myself in a towel and try again. What are the chances I’d get pregnant my first-time having sex? According to my high school health teacher, disproportionately high. But I’d always assumed she was exaggerating. My period has probably just been delayed because of the stress of the wedding and traveling…Or maybe having sex can delay your period. I’m about to take out my phone and look this up when I realize the absurdity of it. Of course having sex can delay your period, that’s what they call pregnancy!

And now I’m back to sobbing.

“Lydia,” my mom’s voice is back at the door and sharper now, “what on earth is taking you so long? I’m leaving in five minutes, and if you’re not out here you’ll have to take the bus again.” She sniffs disapprovingly. “Or you could call an Uber. I’m sure Dad will pay for it.”

I roll my eyes through my tears. My mom knows how I feel about Ubers, but if I dare mention it, I know she’ll just scoff and say that was just one time, and I need to get over it. Excuse me if being dropped off in the middle of a cornfield and left to diejust the one time, was enough to put me off Ubers forever. And okay, in the end the driver turned around and came back for me because, as he said at the time, “This doesn’t seem like the right place, and I felt bad leaving you here.” I’d given him the wrong address, so I guess it was my bad. But even so! A cornfield. In the middle of nowhere. For five minutes I thought I was going to be murdered. So, yeah, I don’t do Ubers.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” I tell her, then I force myself to think about that YouTube video of a tiger cub playing with a puppy to stop the tears. I throw on leggings and a button-down shirt, whip my hair into a wet bun, take several deep breaths, and head out of my bedroom. It’s fine. I’m fine.

***

I’m not fine.An hour later I bolt out of my chairat the salon and book it to the bathroom where I promptly throw up the bagel I ate from the breakfast spread Delia’s maid of honor set up at the salon for us. When I emerge from the bathroom after fully recovering myself, all eyes are on me. Thankfully my mom is off in another part of the salon getting her makeup done.

“Lydia, are you okay?” Delia speaks first, concern etched across her forehead.

“Yes,” I say quickly, “I think I may just have a bout of food poisoning.”

“Oh no, do you think it was from dinner last night?” Delia’s sister, Fiona, glances down at her stomach as if she too might start vomiting at any moment.

Before I can reply Delia shakes her head. “Don’t worry, Fi, even if it was, Lydia had a different meal than the rest of us. She’s allergic to nuts.”

“Oh phew.” Fiona settles back into her chair. I’m touched by her sympathy.

“Are you going to be okay?” Delia asks me.

“I’ll be fine,” I lie for the hundredth time that day. “Don’t worry about me,” I add. “Today is your day.”

“Hey,” Delia’s friend Sophie smiles brightly at me, “at least you’re not pregnant. I threw up for ten straight weeks when I was expecting.”

I gulp the orange juice sitting by my station, hoping no one saw the terror that flashed across my face just now. Ten weeks!

“Don’t worry, Soph,” Delia again pipes up before I can, “Lydia is like me. She’s saving herself formarriage.”

“Really?” Sophie arches an eyebrow at me, like she can’t believe there is more than one woman in the world abstaining from sex before marriage. Honestly after my own experience I can’t believe it either. Apparently I have no self-control.

“Yup.” I nod without making eye contact. And okay, I know technically this is a lie now, but I do have every intention of saving myself for marriage from this point on. So, yeah.

If I am pregnant, I think idly as the conversation moves on to other topics, I wonder what the chances are that anyone will buy the wholeJane the Virginaccidentally artificially inseminated story.

Chapter 7

Lydia

SINCE IT’S JOSH and Delia’s day, I refrain from booking it to the nearest drugstore to buy a pregnancy test. Less altruistically this also allows me to hold on onto the ever-dimming hope that I’m not pregnant. It’s called denial, people.

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