"Positive. As in positive."
Sitting on the rim of the tub, I twisted my hair into a coppery rope as I stared at the sink. Knots the size of my fists had formed in my stomach. At first, my head was completely empty. I wasn't thinking anything. Nothing. And now there was so many thoughts racing through my mind, I couldn't really grab a hold of one of them.
Oh my God.
A timer somewhere in my apartment dinged, and my gaze cut to the closed bathroom door. I drew in a deep breath and the fresh scent of chocolate chip cookies didn't turn my stomach.
It was practically the only thing that wasn't making me run for the bathroom to hurl like a volcano of vomit. Bacon. God help me, but the scent of fried bacon had me on the knees, and I loved bacon. I would marry bacon if I could.
Sorry Cam.
But for the last week, I couldn't stand the smell of it. Actually, any kind of meat cooking did not set well with my stomach. I'd thought it was a stomach virus or some kind of weird food poisoning. Cam had been amazing through all of it, as usual, because he was freaking amazing like always. He stocked me up on gingerale and crackers, and hadn't run running for the hills when I went running for the bathroom.
It wasn't until two days ago, when I was standing in this very bathroom, searching through the cabinet under the sink for a fresh tube of toothpaste when I saw the box of tampons and it hit me.
Hit me with the force of a mac truck carrying nothing but tampons.
I had stood there, clutching my toothpaste as I'd stared at the box, trying to remember the last day of my period. I was one of those girls who always had to hazard a guess when it came to the first or last day of my menstrual cycle, but this had been different. My mind had raced back over the last couple of weeks and the last month, and it struck me that I was more than just a month late.
I had been at least a month and a half late.
Things had been crazy busy recently with school and Cam traveling for soccer it had just slipped my mind. Probably because I got on birth control when Cam and I first started dated, but I'd missed pills on and off, and I was terrible at taking them at the same time each day.
The nausea and fatigue I'd been dealing with for the last two weeks had suddenly became something all together different. I'd gone to bed that night, staring at the ceiling for hours and for the first time since Cam and I had gotten together, I was glad he wasn't home then, because I would've blabbed about it the moment I'd walked out of the bathroom.
Cam had come back home this morning, back from a game he'd played in Kansas City, and I'd already bought two pregnancy tests. I took one this morning. I took the other this evening. Both had the same results.
A pink plus sign for one.
And a digital one that spelled out the words PREGNANT with an estimated week. That was the test I was staring at now.
7-8 weeks.
Holy shitballs.
7-8 weeks pregnant.
Part of me could wrap my head around the fact that I might be—okay, apparently was knocked up—but the whole 7-8 weeks thing blew my mind. All right, being pregnant in general was blowing my mind right now, but I was like really far along.
