My hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary as I merge into traffic. Las Vegas Boulevard is still alive, neon signs flashing, couples stumbling out of overpriced restaurants, everything too loud and too bright for how I feel.
Then I see it. A drug store. Its green-and-white sign glows like a dare.
I don’t think, I swerve. Not dangerously, okay, but enough to make the guy behind me honk like I just committed vehicular blasphemy, and slide into a parking space right in front of the store.
I just sit for a second.
What harm could it do? Just one test. Just to put my mind at ease. It’ll be negative anyway. It has to be.
I grab my tote and get out, the automatic doors whooshing open as I walk in. The overhead lights are almost aggressively bright. The place smells like cleaning products and peppermint gum.
A couple of teenagers are messing around in the snack aisle. A tired-looking woman in scrubs is scanning the cold medicine. And me? I just head straight for the back wall.
The “Family Planning” section. Apparently, buying a pregnancy test needs a title that sounds like a government initiative.
There are so many. Digital ones. Regular ones. Early detection. Fast detection. Double packs. Triple packs. Ones with apps. Ones that claim to sing lullabies. I’m not even kidding.
I grab one of the mid-priced ones. Nothing fancy, just straight answers, please.
I walk up to the cashier, a guy about my age who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. He doesn’t say a word, just scans it and gestures at the card reader. I tap my credit card, take the small paper bag, and stuff it deep into my tote.
Then I walk back out like I just bought a tube of toothpaste and not something that could completely derail my life.
I drive home in a fog. Every red light feels like it’s personally judging me. My stomach’s twisting, but that could be the stress. Or leftover nausea. Or... oh, I don't know.
By the time I pull up in the driveway, my heart’s thudding, and my hands are sweaty on the steering wheel.
This is ridiculous. I’m not even sure why I’m this nervous.
The porch light flicks on automatically as I reach the door.
I unlock it with the same key I’ve used a thousand times, like muscle memory.
And then I step inside, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me like a weighted blanket that suddenly feels too heavy.
Martha is in the hallway, carrying the vacuum cleaner. “Good evening, Cassy. You...you alright? You look a bit…”
I swipe under my eye and pull my expression into something that resembles normal. There’s a tear there I didn’t even know had escaped. “Hi, Martha. Yes, of course. Why?”
She opens her mouth, but before she gets a word out, Dad’s voice booms from the study at the end of the hall, door half-open, TV probably on mute. “Cassy? That you? Be ready to leave in fifteen. I’m starving!”
Martha gives me one last look as she heads toward the kitchen. The kind of look that says, I know something’s up, but I’m not your therapist.
I don’t say anything. Just nod faintly and head straight for the stairs. My heart’s thumping again. My tote bag feels like it’s loaded with bricks now.
By the time I reach the landing, I feel dizzy again. Not nauseous, just overloaded. My hand grips the knob to my bedroom, and I step inside, quietly shutting the door behind me.
And then I collapse. Right on the bed. Bag, laptop case, all of it comes with me.
I stare at my tote. Like it’s a living, breathing thing. Like maybe if I wait long enough, the answer will climb out of the bag on its own and tell me I’m being ridiculous.
Spoiler. It doesn’t.
I get back up, walk to the door, and lock it. No chances. Not tonight. Not with...oh, God.
I sit back on the bed and pull out the little paper bag. It crinkles in my hand like it’s trying to rat me out. I place it in front of me, and I just sit staring.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Just do the damn thing.”
