But right, I was here to get an education and not moon endlessly about my past life. Because oh god, winter break with Mr. Parker had been crazy … crazy amazing, that is. I’d fallen in love with a man twice my age, a divorced guy with a daughter, the emotional, the physical, everything between us so good, so right, that I was questioning myself now. Why had I left? Why had I given up a future with the man that I loved for this, studying by myself in the library, an endless parade of exams, tests, quizzes, essays to write, all about things that I didn’t care about?
So I waited impatiently in the bathroom, tapping the counter, fidgety and nervous. The instructions had said the results would be immediate, that there was no wait time but so far, nothing had appeared on the pregnancy test. Not one stripe, not two, and I checked the back of the box again, maybe I’d read the instructions wrong.
But slowly, the blue liquid seeped a little more and the applicator began to flicker. I held my breath, eyes fixed on the plastic stick, heart beating so hard I was sure my roommate could hear outside even though she was listening to music. And then, with a whoof, I exhaled. Not pregnant. There was only one line. Mr. Parker hadn’t knocked me up, I was still me, just me, no baby inside.
And I stood stock still in the bathroom, trembling before the mirror, heart pounding. I looked the same of course. From the outside, I was still Mandy Smith, nerdy girl with curly brown hair and wide brown eyes. But as I stared at myself, my chin started quivering, lips trembling, and slowly, so slowly, a tear formed in the corner of my eye, sliding down my cheek until it dripped off onto the counter.
Because I wanted to be pregnant. I’d wanted Mr. Parker’s baby in me, for his virile sperm to do its work, to make me his, make both of us his. And I guess I’d been waiting for a sign. If I did get pregnant, then it was definitely meant to be, I was going to leave school and move in with him, burrow myself in love, relax in his arms as I grew large with his child. But no. Instead, I was still me, un-pregnant, not pregnant, just the same as before with the same future that had been set out since birth.
What did you expect? I asked myself angrily. That you’d get knocked up in a flash, like some kind of easy-bake oven? But the truth was, yeah, I was kind of hoping so. Mr. Parker and I had made love countless times, never getting enough of one another’s bodies, savoring the physical again and again and again. Shit, the last few days I’d been at his house, he hadn’t worked at all, taking me to bed instead of flipping open his laptop. We hadn’t even eaten any real meals, just snacking here and there because we were so desperate for one another, gorging ourselves on each other, our love fest rolling non-stop.
But maybe I’d done it wrong. He’d come in my mouth a few times, maybe I should have let him come in me instead. Or maybe that one time he did me in back, I should have forced him to put it in my pussy, gotten one more load, that could have made the difference. But it was too late, and I shook my head, still shaky and jumbly in my skin, realizing that I was starting to sound erratic and irrational. What’s done was done, and I had to get a grip.
So I threw the test in the trash, grabbing the plastic bag and tying it up, striding out to the dumpster. I didn’t want that thing in my apartment, didn’t want a reminder of how I’d failed at something I’d secretly desired, so close to my heart. And with a grimace, I grabbed my backpack and trudged off to the campus health center before class. Because yeah, I’ve been feeling unhappy enough lately that I signed myself up for a counseling session with a professional, someone with a degree.
With hesitant steps, I let myself into the waiting room. Oh good, it was clear, none of my classmates were here. I’d half been expecting to see someone I knew, but blessedly there were just a bunch of empty chairs and gingerly, I sat down, still looking around warily. It’s not that I’m against counseling or anything, it’s just that my family’s always raised me to be self-sufficient, you know stiff upper lip, grin and bear it, all that rigamarole. So to find myself in the campus mental health center was a change, but heck, I was desperate.
Finally, a chirpy girl called my name with a clipboard in hand.
“Amanda? Amanda Smith?”
I nodded, grabbing my bag.
“Yes, that’s me,” I mumbled, head down, before snapping my chin back up. Being here wasn’t shameful, it’s just like having a broken arm or leg. But instead of fixing a bone, the doctor was going to fix my head instead.
“Come in, Room Five please, down the hall,” said the chirpy student and I followed her dutifully, sitting as she closed the door.