Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 277(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
I set my fork down.
“Not hungry?” my dad asks.
I reach for my water instead. “I had a late breakfast.”
My mother’s gaze follows the movement of my hand, narrowing slightly.
“You’ve barely touched your food.”
“I told you. Late breakfast.”
“Before you came to lunch? I’ve been slaving over this meal for hours.”
I force a small smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t notice the time.”
She doesn’t return it.
For a moment, silence settles over the table. It isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t quite tense either. It’s simply there, pressing in around the clink of silverware and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
I take another sip of water, hoping it will settle whatever is happening in my belly.
It doesn’t.
If anything, the unease sharpens, curling low and unfamiliar. I shift in my seat and press my thighs together without thinking, but the small movement catches my attention. A thought flickers at the edge of my mind, insignificant at first, then suddenly impossible to ignore.
No. It can’t be.
My grip tightens around the glass. Saliva wells in my mouth. Standing quickly, I bolt from the table, into the bathroom downstairs, and have barely enough time to flick the bolt before I heave over the toilet. My belly contracts over and over as I’m sick, and then sick again. My forehead beads with sweat as I drop to the floor and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Maybe I ate something bad. But all I had yesterday was toast, a pretzel, and a bag of chips. I hadn’t felt like eating much that wasn’t dry and salty.
Maybe it’s a bug. That wouldn’t be out of the question. I work with sick animals all day, every day, and meet lots of people. It’s easy to pick up viruses.
But when my stomach roils again, and I cup it with my hand, it seems rounder than usual.
No.
I frown, trying to chase the thought back into the shadows, but it slips out of reach before settling fully into place.
It can’t be.
I blink, and my pulse picks up. I’m on the pill, and I haven’t messed up with taking it.
It can’t be.
But the anxious wave of ‘it could be’ lingers as I wash my mouth out and brace to return to my parents.
I find them both still eating as if nothing happened.
“Janey,” my dad says, standing.
“I—” I shake my head quickly. “I’m okay. Probably a bug. I’m not feeling so great.”
My mother studies me again, her expression sharpening with interest rather than mild concern.
“You look tired.”
“I’m not. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But I’m not fine. I’m panicking. “I should get going,” I say, already reaching for my bag.
“You just got here.” Mom balls up her napkin and tosses it onto the table, no longer bothered about the wrinkles.
I force another small smile, though it feels brittle at the edges. “I’ll call you later.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Drive safely,” my dad says.
“I will.”
I leave before either of them can say anything else, my thoughts already racing ahead of me. By the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking.
This is ridiculous.
It’s nothing.
A little bug. Stress. A change in routine. Too much work. Too little rest.
That’s all.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, but I don’t head home.
The drugstore is only ten minutes away. The entire drive, I tell myself I’m overreacting. I tell myself it’s unnecessary, and that I’m letting one small thought get completely out of hand.
But I don’t turn the car around.
I park, step inside, and walk straight to the aisle before I can think too hard about what I’m doing. The box feels small in my hand. Too small for what it represents. Negative, and life goes on. Positive, and everything changes.
I pay quickly, barely registering the cashier, then walk back out into the afternoon light as if nothing has changed.
Except everything might have.
For a long moment, I sit in my car with the bag in my lap, staring down at it.
I’m taking the test to be sure. To have confirmation, so that I know how to treat the nausea.
That’s all.
Just to confirm that everything is fine.
I start the engine again with a ball of anxiety winding tighter in my chest, and my thoughts louder than ever.
***
I stand in my bathroom staring at a plastic stick, waiting for it to tell me a different result.
It doesn’t.
The two pink lines stay exactly where they are, clear and unmistakable, the same as the last test.
I grip the edge of the sink, my reflection wavering slightly as I try to calm my breathing. For a moment, I consider the possibility that this is all a mistake. Maybe I picked up a faulty box of tests, and stress might explain why I’m late.
But I know my body.