Page 87 of Safe and Sound

But Dare and I had always used condoms. There would’ve had to be a mechanical failure with one of them for me to be pregnant. The box proudly proclaimed they were 98% effective. Not only was there the pesky 2%, but I also remembered reading the 98% effectiveness dissipated to 86-87% in real world use.

Real world use like when you were both drunk.

For the past week, I’d tried to curb my out-of-control anxiety by assuring myself that it was stress again. I mean, if something as small as finals and an internship could delay my period, then finding out my boyfriend belonged to the Irish mafia and took part in torture and murder could obliterate Aunt Flo right off the calendar.

After placing the other tests down on the counter, I ripped open one. With it in my hand, I slipped inside the stall and closed the door.

Although I’d read the directions five times in the car, I still scanned them again. Under my breath, I mumbled, “If using a strip, hold the absorbent end directly in the urine stream for 5-10 seconds.”

Hiking down my thong, I then did the awkward dance of peeing standing up. I didn’t know how else to get it in the streamwithout knocking it in the toilet. After adjusting the test, I began counting out loud as I peed some of the water I’d chugged in the pharmacy.

When I reached ten, I removed the strip. Turning around, I placed it on the tank of the toilet. Exiting the stall, I then began pacing around the bathroom. I should’ve set a timer, but with my jangled nerves, I forgot.

So, I continued pacing in a zombie-like trance.

I don’t know how long I kept up it up before I realized enough time had passed to take a peek. With shaky hands, I pushed open the stall door. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I leaned over the tank.

At the two red lines, bile lurched into my throat.Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.Shaking my head, I muttered, “Could be a false positive.”

I then proceeded to take the other two tests.

Each one was positive.

No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t pregnant with Dare’s child.

Grabbing my phone, I texted an SOS to Nick. As I paced around the bathroom, I fought the urge to throw up. Was the nausea from the baby or from the realization I was pregnant.

When my phone rang, I swiped it as fast as I could. “Nick, I need you.”

Thirty minutes later, I stumbled into our favorite Mexican restaurant a block from Taverna by the Sea.

Nick was waiting on me in a booth. At the sight of my usual Mango Margarita, I burst out in tears.

With a frown, he said, “I can order you something else.”

“It’s not that.” I flopped down onto the bench seat. “There’s nothing more in the world I want right now than a giant drink, but I can’t have it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up alcohol again? We both know it won’t end well.”

“I wish that was it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Horror filled Nick’s expression. “Motherfucking hell,” he murmured.

“That was pretty much my reaction.”

“Are you sure?”

“Three pregnancy tests say yes.”

“They could be wrong.”

“And I’m a week late.”

He winced. “Okay, it’s not looking good.”

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