Surprise Delivery(25)

I’m stressed out and maybe feeling paranoid because of it. Maybe the woman wasn’t judging me. Maybe I imagined it. I’m sure I’m not the first woman she’s seen coming in to pick up a pregnancy test. At the moment, I’m just feeling a little raw. The situation at work is really beating me down and now I’ve got Tyler’s stupid fucking comment bouncing around inside my head, only adding to my stress and worry.

It can’t be. It just can’t be. There is no way I can be pregnant. We used a condom. We were safe. It just can’t possibly be true.

But – the voice in my head giggles with some sort of diabolical glee – what if I am?

“Shut the hell up,” I mutter to myself, drawing a curious look from a guy walking past me.

Taking my bag, I walk the few blocks back to our apartment, doing my best to not just avoid eye contact, but avoid talking to myself as well.

Half an hour after I get home, I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the box that’s in my hand. My mind is spinning about as fast as my stomach. Thankfully, the nausea is loosening its grip on me. I can be grateful for that much, at least.

I turn the box over and read the instructions for the hundredth time. Nothing’s changed since I last read it two minutes ago. I know I’m just putting it off – mainly because I don’t know that I want to know the answer. What if I am pregnant? What am I going to do? If I am, Duncan is absolutely the father and he’s currently half a world away – and for all I know, is never coming back.

Yeah, he said he’d be back in eight months or so – and that he wants to see me when he gets back – but who knows if that’s even true. It’s an easy thing to say when you’re caught up in the heat of the moment, flush with the rush of endorphins really great sex gives you, but when that afterglow fades and things get real, things tend to change.

Once you’re not caught up in all the pleasure and sensations of the moment and gain some critical perspective; thought and intention have a way of changing.

“I can’t do this right now,” I mutter.

I open the cabinet and throw it in, not wanting to deal with it right now. I mean, the possibility that I’m actually pregnant is infinitesimal anyway. I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now – like finding a job where I can make decent money and not be treated like a piece of meat every damn day. Yeah, that’d be nice.

But, now that my stomach has finally settled, the first thing I need is some food. Given all the stress and nausea, I’m shocked to find that I’m actually hungry. But, now that the cloud of sickness has passed – if only for a little while – I realize that I’m ravenous.





Nine





Alexis





I still don’t entirely trust my stomach not to turn on me, so I figure I’m just going to pick up some soup and a sandwich from the deli down the block. That sounds like it’ll be easy enough on my tummy. I take the stairs down – our building is old and doesn’t have an elevator – and step out onto the sidewalk.

Bri and I live in a neighborhood in the Bronx that’s been gentrified over the years and is now a hipster heaven. Ordinarily, I am not a fan of the hipster set – they’re a little too pretentious for my taste – but even I can’t deny that they’ve brought a lot of great things into the neighborhood. Cute little boutiques, eateries, pastry shops, coffee houses out the wazoo, and even an actual record store line the street.

As a result of the revitalization of this neighborhood, the place is crowded. Of course, that’s also a symptom of living in New York. Thankfully, this small, out of the way place isn’t near some of the major traffic centers, so it’s not completely wall to wall people, but it’s plenty crowded anyway. But then, I’m not one for big crowds, to begin with.

With a sigh, I set off down the sidewalk, weaving around people. I get to the deli, take a number, find a quiet corner and start to play on my phone as I wait. I scroll through some news and check my social media. When my number is called and it’s my turn to order, I squeeze my way through the crowd, finally making it to the counter.

“Hey, how ya doin’ today, Lexi?” calls Monty, the owner of the place.

“Doing good,” I reply. “How about you?”

He shrugs. “Wife’s still on my ass about everything, the kids take me for granted, and the cat shit in my shoe this morning.”

“So – the usual?”

“You know it,” he says and tips me a wink.

Monty is in his sixties, has wild white hair, crystal blue eyes, and deep lines etched into his face. He’s got that thick Bronx accent that matches his thick Bronx attitude. Monty’s been around forever, and his deli is an institution in this neighborhood. When the hipsters started moving in, I was afraid they’d try to force him out. But, stubborn as a mule, Monty has hung in there and refuses to give in. Of course, I think there probably would have been a riot had he been forced out and whoever took over the shop probably would’ve had to deal with a lot of angry people.

He’s a good guy and although he likes to bitch about his family, he loves his wife and kids more than life itself. He just likes putting on the tough guy act, but it’s all for show.

“What’ll you have today, kid?” he asks.