Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Oh my God. I was so out of it, I don’t even remember. But my boobs certainly hurt and I’m nauseated and I puked today and I got emotional over the sight of Brooke Baker’s hand on her pregnant belly and I’ve definitely been having unprotected sex with Mack Houston…
Oh my God.
I feel so scatterbrained and confused and shocked over the possibility of the P word that I almost miss hopping on my train when it arrives. Luckily, a lady with an oversized purse knocking into me on her way to the entrance doors snaps me out of my trance, and I manage to step on to the train just in time.
I slide into the seat on the subway car and tuck my purse into my lap like a little old lady in a bad neighborhood. I don’t have anything of real value in there—I’m a teacher, for Pete’s sake—but right now, with the way I’m feeling, this old knockoff Chanel is the blankie I never had as a kid.
I just…don’t know how I could have spiraled so far—how I could have let Mack Houston bring me so far out of my normal routine—that there’s an honest-to-goodness chance I’m…with child.
Holy cannoli. Just the thought in my head is almost enough to send me into an intense medical episode right here on this train car for the good people of New York to deal with.
And the more nauseated I continue to get, the more I start hoping this car I couldn’t wait to get on will stop already. I have to get off this thing, breathe air, stare at the sun and burn my retinas…something, anything.
An older woman watches me unabashedly as the car jostles back and forth and the lights flicker on and off. Something snaps inside me, and I stare right back at her. With the way I’m feeling, it only takes three seconds for her to break the eye contact first.
I know I must look like I could do anything at any moment because, quite frankly, that’s the way I feel. Like I could explode all over the place at any second with little to no help from an outside catalyst.
You’re going to have to figure this out ASAP.
When the subway stops and the doors open, I jump up and exit with no regard for my fellow passengers or even the location of this stop. It’s New York City, so I know there’s bound to be a convenience or drug store within a block or two, no matter what, and I’m going to be in it toot sweet.
Truth be told, I never really understood that saying enough to use it, but I’m fifty percent sure I’ve just done it correctly.
My legs churn so hard up the stairs out of the subway station that a numbness tingles in my thighs. I frantically search the street around me for a Duane Reade or Walgreens, spinning in circles and jogging at the same time. People move out of my way—the same way I do when I’m confronted with an erratic stranger on the sidewalk—and I funnel through their holes without pause.
The beacon of Walgreens’ red-and-white sign is dead ahead, and nothing can stop me from answering its call. I need to know if I’m pregnant, and I need to know it right now.
Of course, I don’t realize until I’m stepping inside that I’m completely devoid of nature’s call. How in the hell am I going to pee on a stick if I’m this dehydrated?
I pull out my phone as the welcome bing on the Walgreens door greets me, and I dart into the first aisle so I’m out of the way. Thanks to my millennial-dom, I have Google up and running quickly and my query typed in in no time.
What liquid makes you need to pee quickly?
The Goog is swift with its response, but the first two answers on the list are nothing but a disappointment.
1) Alcohol.
2) Caffeine.
I don’t know crapola about pregnancy, but I’m pretty sure those are two of the main things you’re supposed to avoid.
I’m one second short of a petulant foot stomp when the third option saves me.
3) Acidic juice
I can definitely slam down some orange juice, so I head for the cooler in the back corner in a rush to grab a half gallon.
A good two minutes later, I check out with a pregnancy test and the fluid I need to take one.
And I don’t even bother leaving the establishment to do it. Instead, I head straight for the bathroom and guzzle down as much orange juice as I can on my way. To everyone around me, I probably look like I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown, but I don’t care.
I have to know if I really am pregnant.
By the time I lock myself in the stall, I’ve managed to drink so much orange juice my stomach hurts and peeing on the stick is a breeze. The instructions say to wait three minutes, but there’s no way it’s been that long, and it’s already showcasing the word pregnant on the digital screen.