“I’m gonna check on Ali,” Stana says to us before clearing the room.
“You know, they’re showing the first three Star Wars films this weekend at the theater near my house. Any interest?”
Owen’s question catches me off guard. In the few weeks I’ve known him, we’ve had fun banter back and forth, strictly friendly, but aside from our movie run-in, there have been no solo hangouts.
“I may not have seen those films before, but I’m guessing that will take at least six hours of my afternoon?”
His shoulders shake. “It may or may not be longer than that.”
I rub my hands together in an attempt to remove the excess powders on them. I’ll probably have an allergy attack on my way home tonight from all the shit flying up my nose in this kitchen.
“I think six hours of my life might be too much of a commitment,” I reply. “But I reckon I could give you two.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
I smile and continue to place everything in order, sporadically having to redo Owen’s work, yet I can’t bring myself to care. A sense of comfortability overtakes our interactions as the hours slip by, neither of us seeming to mind.
I leave Stana’s a few hours later, a small smile on my face that doesn’t want to leave. Despite the fact my stomach started feeling uneasy toward the end of the day, I can’t seem to stop smiling. It should worry me the comfort I find from spending time with Owen, the ease of our conversation. I’ve only been single again for less than two months, but if I’m honest with myself, my relationship with Beck began to break down months before that.
I’m not one to stick my head in the sand and go off with the fairies, but I changed my entire life for a man and the thought that he could be unfaithful was just too horrible to imagine. So instead I spent six months in Edinburgh feeling utterly lonely and attempting to salvage something that belonged straight in the bin.
It takes a lot to rattle me, but wow, did Beck manage it. He fucking shook my entire foundation, then tried to escape unscathed. I never understood the expression “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” until the moment my suspicions were confirmed. Some will call me a psycho, but I don’t really give a shit.
I exit the Tube at Notting Hill and begin my final small walk home. I pass the pastel buildings as my feet move along the paved streets, weaving among tourists and locals alike. In all my time I’ve lived here, there has always been a mix of both. I don’t know if it’s the movie-like tranquility that comes from this neighborhood or the Portobello Market that features a range of baked goods, antiques, and artwork, but something draws people in.
I’m about to pass my local chemist when I realize I’m out of shampoo, and if you’ve ever had bleach-blonde hair, then you know you don’t skimp on purple shampoo. One wrong product and I could be rocking yellow hair. Not a good look. Plus, I need to get something to settle my tummy as it’s been sensitive for a few days now. Coming down with something is not what I need right now.
I enter the store and go straight for the shampoo, then quickly find the other items I need. I should probably have gone to my own work to pick up these things, but I’m too exhausted from today to walk the extra four hundred meters.
It isn’t until I pass the tampons that my steps come to a screeching halt. My mind begins to race as I look at the sanitary products I haven’t actually needed for the past two months. I mean, it has to have been all the stress. I’ve never had a regular period and my birth control makes it infrequent. But coupled with the stomach aches and smell sensitivity, it gives me reason to pause.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m a pharmacist—it’s literally my job to pick up on this. Yet here I am, seven p.m. on a Saturday, questioning if the reason I’ve been so off kilter these past two months is because my cheating ex-boyfriend knocked me up and I’ve been too daft to notice it.
Okay, there is a logical way to figure it all out.
I walk two isles over to the pregnancy tests, then make sure to scan my surroundings before grabbing four, as if some alarm is going to go off with a big flashing arrow pointing my way just for touching the things.
While paying for my supplies, I’m thankful that I don’t recognize the pharmacist behind the counter. I don’t miss the look he gives me as he scans each test. I ignore it, muttering thanks before shoving them into my bag and bolting.
I race home as the night sky darkens, no longer taking the time to appreciate my neighborhood and all its beauty.
“Shit. Motherfucking shit fuck,” I yell at the white stick. There is no way in hell this can possibly be happening to me. My hands shake as I put it on the sink, lined up next to three other identical tests. There is no denying what I’m seeing, yet my mind can’t seem to comprehend the drastic reality that is displayed in front of me.
I’m pregnant.
Twenty-five years old, single, and now a looming pregnancy I’m nowhere ready for. I haven’t once held a child. My life consists of my job and my friends—no real responsibilities. How the bloody hell do I fit a child into that mix? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’m not equipped for this.
If I’m honest with myself, the signs have been here for the past few weeks, but I’ve been so desperate to be wrong that I ignored them all.
“FUCK!” I scream into my little bathroom, deciding it’s better to let it all out in one yell than go off like a madwoman for hours and scare the neighbors.
“How the hell did this happen?” I ask before wanting to whack myself.
Of course, I know how it happened. A late night after too many tears and a bottle of whiskey. Beck was there and I was leaving Edinburgh and despite the burning anger I felt inside, I just wanted to feel loved. I think some small part of me was trying to hold onto something we once had, trying to search for the side of him I’d fallen in love with, not the one that crushed my heart. Of course, all I got out of the situation was regret and despair. Well, I guess now this too.
Despite my unease over the whole situation, I pull myself off the bathroom floor, straighten my dress, and head back into my bedroom.
I pull out my mobile and dial Beck’s number, something I never thought I’d have to do again. I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows digging into my knees as the phone continues to ring.
And ring, and ring.
Beck never picks up.
I cancel my movie with Owen. I lie and tell him I have a stomach bug. He’s probably skeptical, but I don’t have the energy to care too much. Mostly, I’ve been centering my days around working and seeing the girls. I’ve been at Saint Street a few times in the past week since finding out, and things with Owen are luckily fine, him not bringing up our canceled plans.
I know I need to get to a doctor’s office and confirm everything, but I’ve been a pharmacist long enough to know I’m definitely pregnant.
After Beck never called me back, I held off, but I think this afternoon I’m just going to have to bite the bullet and try again.
I’m halfway through breakfast with everyone at Saint Street when the smell of bacon sends me running to the loo.
I empty my meal into the toilet, my heaving a recent occurrence that has come with my impending motherhood. Groaning, I rest my head against the cool bathroom tiles, giving myself a moment to catch my breath. Who knew that a bacon-and-egg roll would send me straight to the bowl of a loo?