Page 98 of My Brother's Best Men
Benny working on customers.
Elijah looking poignant and polished at some football game.
A selfie of the three of them, Mathew shirtless with colored chalk all over his chest and a marathon number around his neck, smiling brightly while Benny and Elijah look annoyed. I smirk when I see some of the chalk staining Benny’s shirt.
I miss them so much, and I hate that we’re so far apart.
I didn’t expect this job to be so lonely. Chatting with my editor and boss and some other employees is great, but it’s not the same as when I’d go into the office and find Melissa and chat her ear off about corporate gossip. And it’s certainly not the same as hanging out with the guys.
Ever since I left, I’ve felt like shit. Miserable. Physically and emotionally.
I’ve tried pleasuring myself to take off the edge, but I only think about them and it makes me feel worse, so I stopped. It didn’t feel right. I used to think about them often, as they fed my fantasies a lot in my younger years, but now that I’ve had them, tasted them…
Loved them…
It’s not the same.
When I get up to finally unpack, I feel like death.
I pull out my toiletries bag and unload it. I set out my facewash, my toothbrush, my toothpaste and my pills. I open my pills and count them, since I know I’ll need to put in an order soon.
Then I recount them, because the number’s off. I shouldn’t have this many left at this point.
I count them again. And again, and still…the number is off.
Which means I must’ve forgotten to take a pill at some point.
Well, more like five, but…
Panic hits me as I try to remember when I would have forgotten. I’ve always been good about keeping myself on track.
And then a terrible, terrifying thought hits me.
I pull out my calendar on my phone and hurriedly count the days since my last cycle and freeze when I realize I’m over a month late. How could I be so late and not notice?
My stomach roils with anxiety and airport burrito revenge as I shake my head.
No. No, that’s impossible. I took my pills in Paradise. I know I did, I?—
I try to recount the days there, but it was over a month ago.
Keaton and I hadn’t had sex in the week leading up to my departure because I was busy getting ready for the wedding…
“There’s no way,” I say. “It’s probably just delayed from stress. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
But my stomach turns and I try to push off the overwhelming urge to vomit. I don’t think I have anything left in me at this point.
“You probably caught something on the plane. Ate a bad burrito,” I tell myself. Though as I think back to the start of this, I know it’s not coincidental that I’ve felt this way for the last three weeks.
I pace back and forth, trying to calm myself down. Talk myself out of the possibility, because I can’t comprehend it.
I can’t be pregnant. I just…can’t be.
I can’t push down the urge to vomit and run back to the bathroom, each heave like a nail in a coffin.
All weekend long, I’m sick. On edge.
I debate taking a test and finally decide it’s the only thing I can do to know for sure.
