Page 63 of Brutal for It
Tommy’s been patient. He gives me space but never distance. He cooks when I forget to eat, leaves little notes under my coffee mug telling me affirmations or reminders that I have this.
The man doesn’t say much, but he shows it in a thousand quiet ways.
I get back to work again — cleaning construction sites after the crews leave. The smell of sawdust and new paint fills my lungs, something about it grounding me. It’s simple work, honest work. I get dirty and tired and go home feeling like I earned my place in the world.
Still, something’s been… off.
It starts as a weird ache in the mornings. I think it’s nerves or stress. Then the dizziness comes. Some days, I can’t keep breakfast down.
When Jenni shows up on Saturday, she takes one look at me and frowns.
“You look pale,” she remarks, kicking off her boots. “You okay?”
“I think I ate something bad,” I reply, shrugging it off.
She sets a paper bag on the counter. “Well, let’s see if soup helps. I brought Mom’s recipe — chicken and rice, extra ginger.”
The smell fills the kitchen, warm and familiar. I barely make it through two bites before my stomach turns. I run to the sink, gagging.
Jenni rushes over, rubbing my back. “Whoa, slow down. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, rinsing my mouth. My hands shake.
She studies me. “You been sick long?”
“Couple days.”
She tilts her head really watching me. “Jami… when’s the last time you had your period?”
The words hit like a slap. I freeze. “I don’t know,” I say quietly.
Her eyes widen. “You don’t know. How far back don’t you know.”
“I stopped tracking after—” I stop myself from finishing the sentence. After I started using again. After I stopped caring about calendars or consequences. I stopped my birth control after my money ran out because buying drugs was more important.
Jenni’s voice softens. “Could you be pregnant?”
I can’t breathe. The room spins. “No. No, that’s not.”
But the nausea, the fatigue, the way smells make me sick, it all fits.
Jenni’s already moving. “Get your shoes. We’re going to the pharmacy.”
The drive is a blur. I sit with my hands clenched in my lap, staring out the window. The world feels too bright, too loud. Jenni keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my knee, grounding me like she’s done since we were kids.
Inside the store, everything feels surreal, fluorescent lights that are too bright, the hum of refrigerators that are too loud, a teenage cashier who doesn’t look old enough to know what heartbreak is.
Jenni grabs three boxes off the shelf — different brands, like she’s buying lottery tickets. “We’ll be sure,” she speaks but not to me particularly, maybe to herself.
I want to protest, to tell her it’s ridiculous, but the lump in my throat won’t let me speak.
At checkout, the cashier gives us a curious look. Jenni stares her down until she looks away.
Back in the car, the paper bag crinkles between us like a secret waiting to explode.
At home, I can’t make my hands work. Jenni reads the instructions out loud, her voice too calm, too clinical. I follow her to the bathroom like I’m sleepwalking. She hands me a cup, I fill it and let her take over from there.
Five minutes later, the world tilts.
