Page 20 of Play the Game
I need to get the fuck out of here.
I think I say something to Cindy, or maybe I say nothing. I have no idea. I also have no idea how I end up with my bag over my shoulder or my finger stabbing at the elevator button over and over, as if I can make the car appear through sheer force of will. I don’t snap back into focus until I’m standing in a pharmacy on Boylston St. staring at a wall of pregnancy tests, wondering what the fuck is going to happen next.
Hairbrush to my mouth like a microphone and wearing nothing but a white tank top and underwear, I sing along with Taylor at the top of my lungs and dance around my bedroom like being in constant motion will somehow distract me from the fact that I just peed on nine different sticks which are currently lined up on my bathroom counter, timer on my phone counting down to my doom.
“I Did Something Bad” indeed.
I shake the thought away, dancing it out with a vengeance, determined not to panic until there’s something to panic about.
I spin. I twirl. I drop to my knees and channel my best inner angsty pop star. My stomach cooperates for once, as if it knows I need a win right now.
It could be nothing. I could actually have a stomach bug. It could just be a coincidence that I know for sure I fucked up my birth control pills in August when I did four all-nighters in a row and then had condomless sex with Cooper at the beginning of September.
The first sex I’d had in over a year.
The best sex I’ve ever had in my life that may be about to ruin said life.
God fucking dammit.
My phone timer rings as the song fades out and then it’s just me, my silent apartment, and a line of white plastic sticks about to decide my fate.
I walk slowly, cautiously to the bathroom, as if making too much of a stir might change the outcome. As if whatever is going to happen hasn’t already happened. I squeeze my eyes shut as my feet cross the threshold of the bathroom, gripping my lucky, good hair day brush in one hand as if its luck might translate to this moment, too. Might make that line of pregnancy tests on the sink sayNo, Evan, of course you’re not pregnant with Cooper Wyles’ baby; what a positively ridiculous notion.
When the front of my thighs bump the sink, I take a deep breath and steel myself, opening my eyes and looking down at three plus signs, two sets of double pink lines, and four tiny digital screens screamingpregnant, one of them even helpful enough to include “4+” as if to say,How stupid could you possibly be that you didn’t realize you were pregnant even though you’ve been pregnant for more than four weeks already.
Turns out even pregnancy tests can be assholes.
My stomach churns.
My head throbs.
My boobs are suddenly killing me.
There is literally nothing I don’t hate right now.
Turning my back on those disloyal pieces of plastic, I make a beeline for my living room, sinking into my favorite chair and staring into the aquarium that houses my beloved pet axolotls. The three of them are lined up in a row, faces pressed up against the glass, and I swear they’re glaring at me.
“Sorry, guys.” I sigh. “I don’t hate you. You know you’re my favorites. But I’m, like, eighty percent sure I’m pregnant right now, and that just fucking sucks.”
They keep staring, their smirking faces calling bullshit.
“Ugh, fine,” I groan out. “Nine pregnancy tests don’t lie, so I’m definitely pregnant. I was just hedging to make myself feel better, but there’s no feeling better from this,” I grumble, dropping my head back and closing my eyes.
In the stillness of the moment, my brain kicks into high gear.
I’m pregnant. With a baby.
Panic swamps me as all the implications of this hit me at once.
I need to do so many things. I need to make so many plans. I need to decide if I want to have a baby. That should be the first thing I do, right? Or should I tell Cooper first?
Cooper.
A fresh wave of panic hits me at the thought of Cooper. The way I told him to fuck me without a condom like it was no big deal. I should know better. I do know better. But weird things happen at two in the morning after too much work, not enough sleep, and a near constant caffeine drip. Weird things that lead to me being pregnant and my biggest competition and most hated work rival being the father.
My most hated work rival who did unholy things to my body that night. Who put my hair into a ponytail and rubbed my back while I threw up over a trash can and then offered to take a whole bunch of work off my hands so I could go home and rest because I’m sick.
Except it turns out I’m not sick at all.
