Page 215 of Our Way
“Hello!” I snap.
“Oh my God. I am so fucking sorry. I don’t even remember what happened. Brooke called me and told me this morning.”
“How could you say those things?” I whisper angrily.
“I don’t know.” She splutters. “Last thing I remember, we were talking about it, and then I drank too much and…God, I’m a nightmare.”
“Yes, you fucking are,” I bark. “Poor Nathan.”
“I’ve already called him twice to apologize but he won’t answer my calls. I’m just really worried about you, Eliza, and I don’t know why but it all came out wrong.”
“Do you blame him?” I whisper as I look around.
“Fuck, I’ll keep trying to call him. I left him a message.”
“This all could have been avoided if you weren’t such a fucking idiot.”
“I know. I’m going. I have to try him again. I feel terrible.”
“And so you should. Goodbye.” I hang up in a rush. She pisses me off.
How could she say those things to him? Adrenaline is pumping through my veins.
I try to calm myself down and go back to my pregnancy scare. Shit, this week is just horrendous. The kind you see on cable.
I type into Google. How long after starting the contraceptive pill are you covered?
The answers pop up, and I read through them. They’re all the same.
The Contraceptive Pill does not protect a woman from sexually transmitted infections. Birth control pills protect from pregnancy after seven days of use but it's best to use a backup method (condoms) for the first month after taking the pill to be safe.
What?
A backup method.
A month. What do you fucking mean, a month? I begin to hear the panic as it screams through my veins like a river rapid.
The doctor told me seven days. She was positive. If I had of known…
I put my head into my hands. “Oh my God.”
“Excuse me?” a voice says. I glance up. “I’m here for my post-surgery consult.”
The girls are all on lunch and I am covering reception. “Oh, yes.” I fake a smile. I glance through the booking list. “Mia, is it?”
“You should know me by now. I’ve been in three times this week.” She snarls.
Okay, rude bitch. I type into the computer. “Sorry, I’m not normally on reception.” I frown. Why has she been in three times this week? “Is there something wrong with your wound?” I ask.
“There’s nothing wrong with my wound. The entire procedure was a disaster. I asked for this picture. I wanted them bigger, more natural looking.” She shows me a picture on her phone. It’s of an eighteen-year-old girl with perky, natural breasts. Not that I can tell, because she’s had so much work done, but I think this woman is in her l
ate thirties. She’s never going to look like this.
Henry is a surgeon, not a miracle worker.
“And I can tell you now, my boobs don’t look like this. I want a redo or a full refund.”
“I see.” I force another smile.
