52. The Sandwich

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February is almost over. In a little more than a week, I'm starting my internship with Professor Lee. The nerves make me queasy — my new duties are uncharted territory, and although the professor told me not to worry, I can't help it.

I spent some time in her office ironing out the details. When I say goodbye and leave, my phone vibrates with a text.

Tara: Waiting for you. Do you want me to order?

Me: No. On my way.

I toss the cell into my purse and rush out of the Humanities Building. Outside, wintry air nips at my cheeks. I wrap my arms around me and cross the street to go to the coffee shop where Tara and I meet every Monday.

As soon as I push the wooden door open and step into the warmth of the cafe, she waves at me.

"Leah! Here!"

"Hey." I drop my purse onto the vacant chair and shrug off my coat.

"How are you? What did the professor say?"

I sit and grab the menu. "Not much. She said she'd teach me stuff once we start working."

"I like her. Did you see her shoes? She wears a new pair almost daily."

"Of course, you'd notice." I giggle.

"It's not my fault the outfits of the rest of our professors are so boring. That woman's like a breath of fresh air."

"She really is," I agree. More than her clothes, it's her personality that sets her apart from the rest.

"Do you know what you want?" Tara asks, lifting the corner of my menu with her red nail. "My sandwich is delicious. Want a bite?"

"Okay."

She picks it up from her plate and brings it to my face. Lettuce pokes out between slices of bread. My lips part, but then, the smell of tuna hits my nostrils. 

I clamp my hand over my mouth and jump off the chair. Locating the bathroom next to the kitchen door, I dart there, barely making it to the toilet.

A latte is the only thing in my stomach. I throw it up and pant, running my hand across my clammy forehead.

"Leah." Tara knocks on the door that must've closed behind me.

I scramble to my feet and open it.

Tara's eyes widen. "Holy shit, are you okay? You ran away, and I got scared. I thought something was wrong."

"I threw up," I say, swallowing.

"I see. Are you better now?"

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. Am I? I haven't felt good in weeks. I look tired and feel the same way — exhausted. Drained.

"Oh my God." I cover my mouth with my palms and lean against the tiled wall. 

Tara bites her lip. "Are you late?"

"I had my period last month," I say. 

"Are you sure? We're usually in sync, but I don't remember you asking me for tampons."

I force my brain to think. I'm sure I had it, but it was light and lasted only a day. I blamed it on the change of climate after the vacation.

The vacation. The New Year's Eve. The pool. The night of sex without protection. Not once, and not twice. We made love at least five times, drunk on tequila and stupid. Stupid and reckless. 

Tears spring to my eyes. I try to hold them at bay and count, using my trembling fingers to know how many weeks have passed. 

Almost eight. Our vacation was almost eight weeks ago.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

A sob leaves my throat, followed by one more—the dam breaks.

Someone knocks on the door.

"A moment," Tara yells and turns to me. "Don't panic, okay? Let's stop by the pharmacy and go to my place. Bast isn't home. You need to do a test to be sure. Maybe it's nothing. You've been worried about the internship. It could be the nerves."

She's a great friend, but we both know Tara is lying for my sake. I've been worried but also tired to the point of falling asleep at eight p.m.
I can't focus for shit and barely eat.

"Okay." I nod, blowing out a shaky breath.

We grab our things. Tara pays the check, and we exit the cafe. 

"Wait for me in my car," she says. "I'll get the tests."

"I can do it."

"I don't mind. Try to calm down; I'll be back."

Tara dashes to the pharmacy across the street.

When she unlocks the driver's door and slides into her seat five minutes later, a bag is in her hands. 

"I got three," she says. "Of different brands, and one tells you the weeks."

"Thanks."

Her warm hand squeezed my knee. "It'll be alright; you'll see."

***

It takes me fifteen minutes to pee at Tara's. I leave the tests on the sink and go to sit on the couch by her side.

"Is Brian home?" Tara asks.

"He'll be soon. If they're positive, I'll have to tell him."

"Do you want to look now? I think they're ready."

I don't want to cause once I do, it'll become real and tangible, but I drag my feet to the bathroom and pick up the first test.

It says the same thing as the rest of them.

I'm pregnant. 

***

For the first time, I'm scared of going home. 

I sometimes daydreamed, imagining our future. I pictured our graduation ceremony and our wedding. In my fantasies, we decided to start a family and made love, knowing we might create a little person together on that special night full of passion. 

As I tiptoe into the apartment like a thief, there are no dreams, only fear — the fear of Brian's reaction because I know it's not what he wants. 

We talked about marriage as something abstract that'd happen years from now. We never discussed having kids. I don't even know if Brian wants to have them. 

My breaths turn shallow, and my heart races. Brian is in the living room, dressed to go out, looking at his phone.

"Hey," I say, my voice raspy.

He smiles at me. "Hey, Princess. I was waiting to say goodbye before I leave. You okay?"

I shake my head slowly. 

Brian's brows scrunch up.  He shoves the phone into his pocket and waits for me to say something.

"I'm pregnant," I choke out.

The emotions flit across his face so fast I can't single out any of them. Then, his mouth falls open. 

I want him to hug me and tell me it's going to be okay. I want a kiss and reassurance. I want him to tell me it's not my fault, although I know it is. I forgot about the protection. So did he, but it's my body and I had to be careful.

But he does nothing. He just freezes and stares at me.

"But you...the period," he finally mutters.

"It was light, and I… It must've been something else."

Brian grips his hair. "Fuck. Fuck!"

My heart drops. I can almost hear it hit the pit of my stomach. I clasp my clammy hands to stop them from shaking and stare at him. 

Brian runs a palm across his face. "We'll figure something out, okay? Wait for me. I'll be back soon, and we'll see what we can do."

He drops a quick kiss on my forehead and marches to the front door. 

It closes behind him, and it takes me a full moment to process what's just happened.

I told him the most important news of our lives, and he left me. He just took off and left me alone.

Rage and disappointment swirl in my gut, overpowering every other emotion. 

I rush to our bedroom and rummage in the closet. There's a shoebox full of letters. One letter in particular, Asher's, is the one I pick up and read, drinking in every word.

It's useless. I toss it into the box and grab Brian's letter instead — the one in which he talked about seeing a toddler and imagining having kids with me.

I shove it in my purse and leave the apartment. 

As I get on my Harley, I don't know where I'm going. I end up riding to a park and sit on a bench. 

I reread the damn letter ten times, but the guy who wrote it and the one who left me alone seem to be two different people. 

That's what he does when shit gets rough. He runs. He runs away and leaves me.

My stomach growls. I press my palm to it and rub it through the thick fabric of my coat. There's a life growing inside. A tiny human Brian and I made.

I'm not ready to be a mom. I don't know anything about motherhood. My childhood is proof that people shouldn't have kids before they're ready.

I don't have studies. I don't have anything of mine. The only difference between my mom and me is that Brian knows he'll be a father. He knows, but it changes nothing. He left me again, not bothering to ask me how I felt.

I could blame him for not using a condom, but I was there, too. I should've remembered and reminded him instead of fucking him all night in every position and way imaginable.

Scenarios, hundreds of scenarios run through my head as I sit on the cold bench. All of them feature a child that resents me and grows up bitter and unhappy. All of them are so vivid I can see every minuscule detail.

It's dark when I finally decide to go home. Not for me, but for the baby I need to feed because all I had today was a cup of coffee. No vitamins or supplements. No balanced hot meals. Just coffee. And alcohol when we went out on Brian's birthday. 

More images torture me on my ride home. When I exit the elevator on our floor, the apartment door is ajar. Brian is talking on the phone, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Are you sure? Check again. Leah Mit-"

"Brian."

The phone slips out of his grip and lands on the rug with a thud.

"Thank fuck." He blows out a rush of air. "Where the fuck have you been? I called every fucking hospital in this goddamned city. What the hell, Leah?"

"Funny that you pretend you care."

"Pretend I care?" Brian's eyes widen, and his voice shakes. "I come home to see you're gone, and a letter from another fucker is on our bed. Our bed. In our fucking home."

"Maybe you shouldn't snoop."

"Maybe you shouldn't leave without your fucking phone! You're pregnant. You don't even wait for me and read the letter of that dick instead."

"That's what you worry about? You leave me and run away, and we're talking about Asher right now? I don't know anything about his dick, but yours was inside me, and I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant, and you left me. Again."

"I told you I was meeting Dad and Jim, Leah. I was back in less than an hour. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Everything!" I throw my hands up. "Everything's wrong because you take off the minute shit gets rough. But you know what? I'm not the same girl you left. You don't want a kid; I get it. I'll manage on my own. I don't need you. I'm strong, and I'm-"

Tears stream down my face. I wipe them off and take Brian's letter out of my pocket. 

"I took this with me, you stupid idiot. But you know what? I shouldn't have. Every word's a lie."

"A lie? What the fuck else can I do to prove I love you?"

Brian's voice cracks but so did mine, and he left without talking to me.  

"I needed you. Big mistake. I should've known better than to trust you."

I pivot to get away from him, but Brian grips my wrist. "Wait. For God's sake, wait."

I wriggle free of his grasp. "I need to pee."

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind me, I yank my jeans and panties down my legs and still.

There are crimson stains on the white cotton. A silent sob escapes me, or perhaps it isn't silent because Brian barges into the room and halts, staring at the blood on my underwear.

His face twists in something similar to pain. He swallows.

"I'm bleeding," I whisper the obvious thing, my hand clutching my stomach.

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