“Uh… Kim?”
“Yeah?”
“What makes a woman not have her period?”.
There’s a pause. “Didn’t you take sex ed?”
“Humor me,” I ask, feeling a nasty pit in my stomach.
“Pregnancy. Hysterectomy. Excessively low body fat. Those are the most common ones that I can think of. Might be more, though.”
“Right?” Oh, shit. “I gotta go.”
“Why? Didn’t you get yours?”
“I’m fine. Gotta go do my hair and makeup. Otherwise, I’m going to be late,” I lie, as a cold knot of panic rolls through my system. I refuse to accept, especially out loud, that I’m not having my period, especially when I haven’t lost my uterus and my body fat isn’t anywhere close to single digits.
“Okay. Good luck and have fun! They’ll love you.”
“Thanks,” I say automatically. As soon as our call disconnects, I pull up a browser and Google. Google knows everything. Surely it has the logical, scientific explanation I’m hoping for.
It’s so unhelpful. It says basically what Kim said, plus a few more improbable things like undiagnosed diabetes or stress. But I doubt it’s stress, since Aunt Flo still came on time in Dillington, and that was the most stressful time of my life. As for diabetes, puh-lease. It doesn’t run in my family, and I don’t have any symptoms.
But pregnant? I put a hand over my belly. No freakin’ way.
In order for me to be pregnant, I’d have to have had sex in the past month or two. Except I haven’t. Can a squiggly sperm merrily swim around in my vagina for a year, then finally decide to fertilize an egg? Oh, and before that, smash through an unexpired rubber like the Hulk?
Impossible. I’m more likely to have a Martian spaceship crash-land on my head.
Dazed and panicked, I put on the black dress and put my hair back into a loose ponytail. Then press some powder on my face.
Maybe I’ve un-synched with Kim. Is it not possible? We haven’t lived together in almost two weeks. Then I check my calendar. Nope. I’m late. Three days late. That’s half the period.
Hand over my belly, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, willing myself to start bleeding.
This isn’t happening. I can’t be pregnant through some sex act I don’t even remember! Maybe Nate remembers something. Okay, he’s a super lightweight, but he’s bigger than me, so he could’ve recovered his memory faster. Or so I hope. Is that how it works? Who knows, but I’m desperate.
I don’t know how long I stand in the bathroom, but suddenly Nate is there.
“You ready?” he asks me.
I turn to look at him.
Hey, do you remember having sex in Vegas? The question forms in my head, but I can’t bring myself to actually ask it. I’m not just a coward. I’m a chicken of epic proportions.
“Yes,” I say with rubbery lips.
“Great.” He smiles, then takes my hand and squeezes gently. “Don’t be nervous. My family doesn’t bite.”
He thinks I’m nervous about meeting his family? Well, I guess that’s better than him guessing the truth.
But…I rein in my panic and take a few calming breaths. There’s no proof I’m pregnant. I just think I might be, but what is this? Some kind of immaculate conception? That only happens in the Bible. And the Virgin Mary, I am not.
Nate drives one of his fancy cars. A bright red Ferrari. I stare out the window, thinking about when I can see my gynecologist. She’s usually booked solid, but if I tell her it’s an emergency…
“Wait! Stop!” I scream.
“What?” he says, pulling over fast.