Page 113 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
The weekend passes in a blur. I couldn’t say what we did or where we went or who we saw, it’s all a jumbled mess of memories. Flashing lights, rainbow colors, raucous laughter, and the smell of cigarettes, everything underscored by the worry gnawing my stomach. My insomnia doesn’t help matters. No matter what I try, I just can’t get to sleep. My mind runs on a hamster wheel the minute I lie down, and eventually I get up and leave Grace softly snoring in the other king-size bed in our room, and wander through the dark villa alone.
As I watch the sun come up over the desert, I say a little prayer of thanks that my suggestion to have Nico spend his bachelor weekend next door to Kat’s never panned out. I have a secret suspicion Kat put the kibosh on that after what happened between me and A.J., but the idea was never mentioned again.
No one ever speaks his name around me. We’ve all adopted an unspoken “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, which suits me just fine.
One thing I do know for certain: A.J. is still Nico’s best man, and Kat is none too happy about it. I overheard a one-sided phone conversation in which Kat hissed, “I don’t care what he’s going through, Nico, Chloe walked in on him with a hooker!”
I turned around and walked away before I could hear more, before my mind could spend too much time dwelling on what he might be going through. I can’t let myself care what his problems are. It will be bad enough seeing him at the wedding.
When I think of that it makes me ill.
We fly back from Vegas the same way we arrived: on Nico’s private jet. Until we disembark—or is it deplane? I can never remember the difference—I’m confident Grace and I have done a good job of covering up any possible whiff that anything might be amiss. But as we’re waiting for the limo driver to finish putting our luggage in the trunk, Kat pulls me aside and demands, “Okay, this has gone on long enough. What’s up?”
I don’t bother with evasions. She’ll find out soon enough either way; I’m headed straight to the drugstore after she drops me off at my apartment. “Okay. Two things. One: I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure, and I definitely didn’t want to upset you. Because I think this might upset you.”
She frowns, and I hurry on. “And two: before I tell you, you have to promise me you’ll keep it a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Not even Nico.”
Her brows shoot up. “Honey, there’s nothing I don’t tell him. You know that.”
I nod. “But that’s my condition. He can’t know. Because if he knows, there’s the possibility that he might tell A.J., and I’m just not ready . . .”
I trail off because Kat’s mouth has dropped open. Her eyes go wide in the same way Grace’s did. “Oh, God, Chloe, no.”
She’s figured it out already. I should have known. “Are you upset?”
She figures that out, too. Faster than I can blink, I’m pulled into a hug. “No, you idiot, I’m not upset for me, I’m only worried about you!” She pulls back and clutches my arms. “How could this have happened? Didn’t you use protection? I thought you were on the pill!”
Suddenly it feels as if gravity is working overtime, and I’m about to be sucked down into the ground and swallowed up forever. Which might not be such a bad thing.
“I haven’t been on the pill in months, not since Eric. And A.J. and I did use condoms, just this one time . . . we got a little carried away.” The laugh I make sounds disturbing, even to me. “And it only takes once, doesn’t it?”
Kat moans. “Oh, sweetie. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, Kat. Honestly, I don’t know anything anymore. Just, please—don’t tell Nico. Not yet. I’m not even sure yet. Fingers crossed, this is all just from stress.” I try on a grim smile. “Or maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll be cancer.”
Kat hugs me with all her might. “I’m here for you, whatever happens. You know that, right?”
I look over her shoulder at Kenji and Grace staring with worried eyes at the two of us, and I’m grateful that I’ve got people on my side, because I have a terrible feeling I’m going to need them.
If my trip to the drugstore ends with a little blue line on a stick that I’ve peed on, I’m going to need them all.
Three hours later, I stare down at the white
plastic stick in my hand, laughing. I laugh and laugh and laugh, until eventually I start to cry.
Sobbing, I look up at my bathroom ceiling. “God, I’d just like you to know that I officially hate your guts. And don’t expect to hear from me ever again.”
I throw the stick in the trashcan and go into the living room to call my mother.
She’s always wanted to be a grandma.
My mother reacts to my news with her typical aplomb; after a long pause, she simply says, “Oh, sweetheart.”
Then, because it’s the universe’s new favorite thing to screw with me, my father picks up the other phone extension in their bedroom and demands, “What’s ‘oh sweetheart’? What’s wrong?”
“Hi Dad. How are you?” I stall, because he’s not going to react nearly as well as my mother. In fact, I’m betting that some time in the next five minutes he’ll be threatening a lawsuit and throwing things at walls.
“Chloe,” replies my father firmly, “I heard your mother’s tone. Tell me what’s wrong with you.”
