The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(56)

“Thanks.” She accepts the glass with a trembling hand.

I stroke her back as she takes a timid sip. “Take your time.”

In my head, I’m already dialing up doctors and wheeling her into the emergency room, but I’ve got to frame it right or I know she’ll object. Before I can even broach the subject with her, she lurches forward and throws up the water she just drank.

I wait until she settles down again before lifting her into my arms and carrying her back to bed. “I’m taking you to a doctor,” I announce.

“No.” She grabs my wrist, but her grip is limp. “I’ll be fine in a few hours. I just overdid it this week.” Tears stain her face. “God, that was gross. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck, baby, who cares?” I hold her against my chest as I clear the sheets away for her.

Once I have her tucked in, I leave to get a washcloth and another glass of water. On my way back to the bed, I snag the trashcan and place it on the floor next to her.

I hate how miserable she looks, and my nurturing side kicks in as I lay the washcloth across her forehead. “You’ve been throwing up like this every day for how long?”

“I don’t know. A while. I caught a bug. Nana had it first and she’s finally gotten over it. I just need to wait it out. I’ll feel better in a few hours.”

“You got a fever? Should I get you some aspirin?” I press the back of my hand against her face. It doesn’t feel flushed.

“No fever,” she mumbles. “Just queasy and tired.”

An alarm bell rings in my head.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I run through her symptoms. The sickness in the morning, tapering off in the afternoons, the really tender breasts, her feelings of fatigue. No signs of fever. The fact that she’s never once had her period, or at least mentioned it, in the two-odd months we’ve been screwing.

“Are you pregnant?” I blurt out.

Her eyelids snap open. “What?”

“Pregnant.” I tick off her symptoms on each of my fingers, ending with the lack of period.

“No. I’m not. I just had my period…” She pauses and thinks. Her face goes white. “Close to three months ago,” she whispers. “But…I’ve always had light periods, even on the pill. And I’ve been spotting the last couple of months. I thought…”

I get to my feet and hunt down my clothes.

“Where are you going?” she whimpers.

“To buy a pregnancy test.” Or five. I swipe a package of crackers from the minibar and toss them toward her. “Try to eat, okay? I’ll be right back.”

She’s still protesting as I leave the room.

There’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy eight blocks away. I sprint toward it like I’m trying to qualify for the Olympics, unconcerned that I totally forgot my coat at the hotel.

Inside the pharmacy, I find three different tests. I buy them all.

The clerk gives me a sympathetic look and opens his mouth to say something stupid. The death glare on my face has him clamping his lips together.

When I get back, Sabrina is sitting on the edge of the bed eating the crackers. I feel like the tests are superfluous at this point. She could be a commercial for pregnant chicks.

I’m surprisingly calm as I open each box. “Here you go. Three different ones.”

“We’ve been safe,” she says, her tone faraway as if she’s talking to herself rather than me. “I’m on the pill.”

“Except that first time.”

She grimaces. “It was just the tip.”

An involuntary laugh comes out. “Then peeing on the sticks only gives us peace of mind, right?”

She finishes her cracker in silence. I don’t know whether to sit beside her or on the loveseat. I opt for the couch to give her space. Sometimes Sabrina can be hard to read. Right now, I have zero idea what’s going through her head.

Slowly, she gets up and approaches the small cardboard boxes stacked on the desk as if they contain venomous snakes. But eventually she gets there, gathers the boxes in her arms, and disappears into the bathroom.

I don’t stand at the door with a cup against the wall, even though I’m tempted as fuck to do it. Instead, I turn on the television and watch a couple ladies try to sell me a velour tracksuit in various types of animal print—only $69.99.

I watch this mind-numbing display for ten eternal minutes before the bathroom door opens. Sabrina’s face is about the same shade of white as the hotel robe she’s wearing.

“Positive?” I ask unnecessarily.

She holds up an empty box. “You need to go buy ten more of these.”

I pat the sofa cushion next to me. “I’m not buying any more. Come and sit down.”

Like a belligerent child, she stomps over. Then she drops down next to me and covers her face with her hands. “I can’t have a baby, Tucker. I can’t.”

A sick feeling curdles in my stomach. It’s a weird mix of relief and disappointment. The words I love you—the ones I wanted to say earlier when I was buried inside her—are stuck in my throat. I can’t say them now.

“You do whatever you need to,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

It’s all I feel like I can say at this point, and I know it’s not enough.