I grab the remote control, and just that sudden movement makes my stomach flip over violently, almost like I’m gonna barf. But that’s ridiculous. I hardly drank a drop tonight.
Out of nowhere, my body dry heaves.
What the hell? I cock my head to the side, totally perplexed. What the heck was that? My body heaves again—only this time, holy shit, fluid has gushed into my mouth.
I sprint off the couch into the bathroom, my palm clamped over my mouth, and only semi-make it to the toilet before another, violent heave makes me vomit up every drop of fluid and Cherry Garcia in my stomach, not to mention the chicken wings and guacamole I ate at the bar.
Oh, jeez. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.
What the hell? I barely drank tonight.
I barf again.
Damn, I feel horrible.
Were the chicken wings bad? I wonder if anyone else is feeling sick, too?
I rinse out my mouth and clean the barf off the toilet seat and floor and shuffle back to my couch.
Damn, my nipples are hurting.
I can’t imagine bad chicken wings would make my nipples extra sensitive.
I begin to nestle back onto the couch and grab the remote, but then all of a sudden, I sit up, tilting my head like a cockatiel. An alarming thought just skittered across my brain like a cockroach after the kitchen lights have been turned on.
No.
It couldn’t bethat.
I took a pregnancy test ten days ago and it was negative—and I haven’t missed any pills since then. Have I? I don’t think so. I didn’t take them at the exact same time every day like you’re supposed to, granted, but close enough.
I sprint back into my bathroom. The box of pregnancy tests I bought the other day had three pee-sticks in it, and I’ve only used one.
I pull out one of the unused pee-sticks, sit on the toilet, and pee on it, my heart racing. There’s no effing way. That would be ridiculous. Unthinkable. I just quit my job with medical benefitstoday. Ha! No. God doesn’t have that mean a sense of humor.
I sit and stare at the stick, waiting. One line means I’m in the clear. Two lines means I’m fucked six ways from Sunday.
I sit and wait.
I thought it was weird I almost barfed in the sex dungeon, but when I Googled “vomiting from intense orgasm,” the Internet was littered with countless women who’d experienced the exact same thing. So I didn’t sweat it.
“Don’t you dare let me catch either of youevermaking an accidental Faraday with a woman unworthy of our name or I’ll get the last laugh on that gold digger’s ass and disown the fuck out of you faster than she can demand a paternity test.” That’s what Josh said his father told him when he was barely a teenager.
The faintest second pink line begins to appear on the pee stick and my eyes pop out of my head.
“No,” I say out loud. “Go away. Go away!”
The line is getting darker.
“No,” I say, pulling at my hair. “Please, God, no.”
This has to be a mistake. A false positive. Yes, that’s what it is. A false positive. Of course. I run into the living room and grab my laptop. I Google “false positive pregnancy test” and it turns out there’s no such thing, basically—except in cases of certain medication (no), defective test (maybe?), or, rarely, certain kinds of cancer. Is it wrong to be wishing I have cancer right now?
Okay, maybe the test was defective. That’s my only hope.
I drink a couple glasses of water and sit on the couch, Googling like a madwoman for at least thirty minutes, trying to find a reasonable explanation for those two pink lines that doesn’t involve a little Faraday growing inside me, and when I feel the tiniest hint of pee in my bladder, I run back into the bathroom and pee on the third pee-stick.
I would never try to trap you,I assured Josh.I’m a millionaire now, Josh—I don’t need your stinkin’ Faraday money.
