Page 51 of Four Tattoos

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Yeah, Duke can cover for me if anything comes up, and there’s a drugstore right around the corner. I won’t be gone long.”

I reach for my bag from under the desk and pull out my wallet so that I can give Brittany money, but she waves it off. “Don’t worry about it. I got it. Why don’t you go get some water in the break room?”

I nod, still numb, but not feeling quite so alone. “Thank you.”

“See you in a few minutes,” Brittany promises, just before slipping out the door.

I get a cup of water as instructed, and try to tell myself that maybe there is some other explanation for why I haven’t gotten my period. There has to be, because the men used condoms every time we were together. But my cycle’s always been as regular as the sunrise. I know what the test result’s going to be; I can feel it in my gut.

* * *

Someone’s tapping on the door of the washroom that’s connected to the club owners’ office. I’ve always used the public restroom that’s near the showroom, but Brittany told me to come in here for privacy.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” Callie’s muffled voice says. “Brittany said you’re not feeling well. Can I help?”

“Ummm…”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I finish drying my hands and open the door to let her in. “I’ll know in two minutes.”

She follows my gaze over to the counter, where the test stick is sitting on the edge of the sink.

“Oh, shit,” Callie says, taking in my shaken expression.

“Yeah. Oh shit.”

“Did you feel sick this morning?” she asks.

I shake my head. “No, but my period is late. Really late.”

“Shit.” She’s around my age; she knows what a potentially life-changing moment this is.

Pregnancy is wonderful when you’re hoping and trying for it, and when you’re ready for it. I’m the farthest thing from ready, even more so now than a couple of days ago.

I glance at the timer on my watch. Twenty seconds left. It’s probably close enough to check the results, but instead I stare at the countdown, which feels like a doomsday clock.

The timer goes off, and I silence it, but I stay where I am, not ready for what I know is coming.

“Want me to look?” Callie offers.

When I nod, she steps over to the sink and leans down, angling her head to get a straight-on view of the indicator window. She picks it up and takes a second look before finally turning to me. “You’re pregnant, babe.”

She watches my face, and when I crumble a moment later, she sweeps me into her arms, making soft shushing sounds as her hands rub my back.

“I don’t know how this happened,” I say eventually.

“Are you on birth control?” she asks.

“No, I’m not, but my partners used condoms every single time.”

Callie pulls back to give me a questioning look, but she doesn’t ask what I mean by partners, plural. I never told her about the men I was seeing.

“No method is one hundred percent foolproof,” she says. “Maybe they forgot one time and didn’t realize it; maybe a condom ripped or broke. There could even be tears too small to notice.”

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