Page 23 of First Comes Love

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I slow as I walk down the aisle. The plastic handles of the shopping basket slide under my sweating palms. My heart is racing and I don’t think I can do this. I should go home and order from Amazon. I can even get next-day shipping, though since it’s getting late, next day will actually be the next, next day.

And I can’t wait that long.

I let out a breath, set my basket down, and flip up my hood. I look like I’m about to rob the fucking place, but I don’t want to risk getting seen. That would be worse than robbery.

I hunch my shoulders and look at the white boxes. Why the hell are there so many different options? I drop my gaze to the price tags. Twenty bucks for a pregnancy test? Really?

Fuck, it doesn’t matter, not really. I’ll pay anything for the peace of mind I’m going to get once this sucker pops up with a big fat negative. Because I’m not pregnant. I donothave Noah’s child growing inside of me, sucking my energy and making me hate my favorite foods.

I. Am. Not. Pregnant.

Jenny and Colin have been trying for a few months and nothing has come about yet. She told me you only have like a twenty percent chance of getting knocked up each cycle, which means I have an eighty percent chance that I haven’t been knocked the fuck up.

By Noah.

Oh my God. I just … can’t. I literally cannot.

I grab a box of the Target-brand pregnancy tests, saving myself a few bucks, and quickly hide them under the random items I didn’t need but had to have from the dollar bins at the store front.

I practically jog to the registers, thankful now more than ever for the self-checkout. I pay for my items, put the basket away, and stop. My heart is still hammering, hands still shaking. I turn, looking at the big red sign that says “restrooms.” I chugged two bottles of water before I came, thinking it wouldn’t hit me until I got home. But since I got nervous and put off walking down the pregnancy test aisle and instead spent thirty minutes looking at Disney toys—yes, the ones for little girls—my bladder is winning. I have a twenty-minute drive home and I honestly do not know if I will be able to make it that long.

Since I’m an adult who is perfectly capable ofnotpeeing my pants, I go into the bathroom. I lock myself in a stall and rip open the test, read the instructions, then sit on the toilet. I stick the test between my legs and … now I can’t go. Nerves are stopping me up and someone else just walked in.

I close my eyes. They don’t know what I’m doing, but I better hurry up or they will think I’m pooping, which embarrasses me for some reason but at the same time shouldn’t matter at all. Everyone poops.

Finally, I’m able to go, and I count to five then pull the test out, recapping it and watching the little white screen darken. The instructions say to wait three minutes before looking at the test. I count to ten and look.

The blue test line pops up right away. There is nothing next to it. I relax. I’m not pregnant, see? I knew it and now I can go home and stop worrying. In fact, I’m sure my period will start tomorrow and I’ll laugh at myself for all this anxiety.

I’m about to throw the test in the little metal trash when I look at it one more time.

Holy fucking shit balls. Is that a second line?

No. No, no, no.

I bring the test closer to my face. I see a faint shadow. But it’s not a line. So I’m not pregnant, right? I close my eyes and count to thirty again. It hasn’t quite been three minutes, but I look again anyway.

There is definitely something there, making a little plus sign. If I am pregnant, the line would be bright like the test line, right? Crap. I don’t know these things.

There is one more test in the box. I’m about ready to rip it open and take it when I remember that I just went pee. Double crap. I’ve never wanted to have to pee more in my life than I do right now.

But I need to know.

I stash the possibly positive test in my purse and leave the bathroom, going into the little cafe. I order a blue Slushy and a big pretzel. Both actually sound good, and the smell of butter and salt makes me hungry. I nibble on the pretzel, so nervous I can hardly eat.

I do a bit of online research while I gulp down the Slushy. It seems that tests with blue lines can have an “evaporation line” that gives the illusion of a positive test. Pink line tests are a bit more reliable, and the digital ones are fool proof. Also, chugging something like I’m doing now can dilute the pregnancy hormone and give you a false negative. I should test again in the morning.

Though, there is no fucking way I can wait that long.

I finish my pretzel and drink, and get up. I take my bag to the car, then go back inside, praying I don’t run into anyone I know. I don’t waste any time. I get another basket and head to the personal hygiene aisle.

I end up spending seventy dollars on pregnancy tests. I clutch the white shopping bag to my chest as I walk to my Jeep, heart in my throat. The drive home stretches forever, and I’m crawling out of my skin when I get stuck by a train. I’m such a wreck that I don’t even listen to music.

Finally, I get into the house, let the dogs out, and put the boxes of tests on the counter. Each came with two, oh—this one has a bonus so three!—and I take one out for now, saving the other for the morning.

I take the used test from my purse, lay it on a napkin, and scrutinize it. Like any sane person would do, I take a picture with my phone then play with the color contrast to see if that’s a line or just as shadow of where a linecouldbe.

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