Page 6 of All or Notching
My pen is hovering over the question as my fingers tighten on the cartridge. My mind instantly carries me back to that night three or four months ago, that night with Tristan.
I’ve thought about him a few times since. Okay, more than a few. Every now and then, I regret throwing out his phone number. I should have thanked him for getting me home safely and for his note. And for the night. It’s replayed in my mind too many times to count. Sometimes when I’m dreaming about it, in that land of half asleep, half awake, I change the ending, pretending we stayed together, that we morphed from a one-night stand to a long-term relationship.
But long term is outside the cards for me. My career is my relationship.
I skip the question.
The next one is no better. It asks for the date of my last period. I press the tip of the pen to the paper, mentally thinking of my calendar at home, where I track my menstrual cycle because it’s so irregular, and realize I can’t remember.
Oh, God.
My palms sweat.
“No, no, no.”
The young mother glances over at me, and I give her a half-hearted smile of apology.
Reaching into my purses, I dig around until I find my phone. While frantically swiping to the calendar app, I’m mumbling another string of no’s under my breath. I force my mind to clear so I can concentrate. I can do this. I count back the weeks.
My hands shake. The further I go, the more my fear rises. Ihaveto be wrong.
“Okay, don’t panic,” I say aloud. I swivel in my chair so I’m not quite facing the mother with her baby head on. I’ll just fill out the rest of the form and rethink this question.
The second go at it doesn’t help. I don’t think I’ve had my period in at least three months. Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Ms. Downing? I can take you back now.”
I jerk my head up. The receptionist is standing in front of me. I didn’t see or hear her approach.
My eyes slide over to the young mother. Is that understanding in her expression?
The receptionist hands me a wrapped plastic cup. “The room I’m putting you in actually has a bathroom attached. If you’ll just fill this and then I’ll take it and test it while you wait for the doctor.”
My heart is racing, and my hand trembles as I reach for that damn cup. The cup that’s going to tell me … nope. Not going there. Not until I have one hundred percent confirmation.
I follow her down the short hallway, my gaze glued to her back. She waits while I finish the deed, and then I hand over my possible future to the unsuspecting woman. “Just take a seat, and Doctor Tessler will be with you shortly.”
She leaves me in the small room, and I just stand there, a million and one things going through my head. They all end with me mentally screaming the same thing—I can’t be having a baby!
And with a man-child I brought home from a bar. I didn’t even get his last name. What will people think?
I drop into the empty chair near the examination table with a soft thud, my handbag thumping on the floor when I let go.
What the hell am I going to do?
I can’t be pregnant.
How did I not realize I had missed my period for months?
Work. It’s because I’ve been so occupied at work. My account list has grown by forty percent in the last three months. We’ve been complaining at the office that there must be something in the air besides the fall temperatures because there’s been an influx of new clients. Many have been downright demanding, insisting their portfolio be our priority.
My sisters have also been calling me, wanting to plan a family get-together for the holidays, our first since mom and dad passed.