Chapter One
Christina
It's been three weeks since my screw up. Three weeks. According to the directions on the box, plenty time enough to know if I'm pregnant.
Don't be a wimp, Christina. Just do it!
I'm sitting on the toilet, staring at this damn stick, too petrified to piss on it. What the hell is wrong with me? And how is it that a tiny piece of plastic is causing so much turmoil in my life?
Because if it's positive, my new career is over, or at least it's put on hold. There's that whole issue of me being just twenty-two when I have my first child. Sure, I know other girls younger than me have had kids, but I'm not them. I'm not ready. I'm just not ready.
Then there's this other part of me, this twisted, crazy part of me that thinks about how adorable my little brothers are, and how Andrés and I would have a cute baby, too. My brothers are only three and four-years-old. My child could actually play with them in a few years. Or get into trouble with them, as my brothers are inclined to find trouble wherever they go.
Oh, gawd, how would I be able to cope if he or she turned out like my brothers, or like Andrés tells me he used to be as a kid?
And even though I hate myself for chickening out, I slide that little strip back into the box and hide it at the bottom of my cosmetics bag. I'm better off not knowing—for now at least.
Because if it's positive, I'll have to tell Andrés. Three weeks ago, on the night Andrés and I had unprotected sex (unprotected because I was stupid enough to forget my pill box at my mom's house in San Antonio) he'd shown me the most beautiful engagement ring. Then he'd put the damn ring away and said something about how he didn't deserve to ask me to marry him yet.
I know what's going to happen if we find out I'm pregnant. He's going to take out that ring again. And that's not what I want. When Andrés proposes, I want it to be because he's ready to ask me, not because he feels pressured by the baby news. And if I am pregnant, I don't want Andrés to think that swayed my decision, either. Baby or no baby, I already know what I'm going to say if and when he pops the question.
Even though we've only been together seven months, we're starting to finish each other's sentences. Whether it's eating Mexican food, enjoying the outdoors, going to art museums, or just curling up with a movie, Andrés and I are perfect together. And then there's the way he makes my heart hammer in my chest whenever he comes home from work and wraps me in his arms. When I place my hand over his heart, lean up and kiss him on the lips, I just want to melt into him. He completes me, and I couldn't imagine a future without him. Of course I'd say yes. Yes! Yes! Yes! Now if he'd just ask me.
I could forget old-fashioned conventions and ask him. Why does it always have to be the guy who proposes? But if I do turn out to be preggers, I don't want Andrés thinking that was why I wanted to get married. No, best to wait it out in agony, wondering if Andrés still has that ring, and if so, why doesn't he just ask me already?
I finish my business and pull up my pants. Then I grab my cosmetics bag off the floor and hide it at the bottom of the cabinet, not that Andrés will be going through my lipsticks, anyway.
I stare at my face in the mirror as I'm washing my hands. I look terrible. My normally bright green eyes have a dull haze to them, and they appear to be sunk in their sockets. My skin has this deathly pale pallor, except for my nose. I used to think it was on the smallish side, but now it has swelled up like a balloon about to burst, and it's as bright as a ripened strawberry.
The doctor said I have a case of sinusitis, so she put me on antibiotics. So far, the infection doesn't seem to be clearing, and I've been reduced to a booger blowing zombie all month.
Now that I'm on antibiotics, and my birth control pills aren't as effective (actually, they're not effective at all since I decided to quit taking them until I find out if I'm pregnant), Andrés has to wear a condom. He hates it. I hate it, too, but I'm not taking any more chances. Hopefully, it isn't already too late.
***
Andrés
I shouldn't have shown Christina the damn ring. If I thought the weight of those unspoken words, "Will you marry me?" felt heavy before, it is nothing compared to the pressure I am feeling now, like the noose around my neck has been cinched and strung up, and the hangman is about ready to kick that stool out from under my feet.
I stir the spaghetti sauce and lick some of the red juice off the spoon. Needs sugar. Christina likes her sauce more sweet than tart, and I want tonight's dinner to be perfect, in case I get the nerve to ask her to marry me.
The thing is, I want to give Christina that ring, but the timing never feels right. First off, there's the fact that I acted like a total ass three weeks ago, and I don't feel like I've done much of anything to prove to her how much I love her. I've taken her to San Antonio twice to see her family. I bought her new seat covers for her car. I cleaned up the spill from the can of soda she left open in the fridge. Those things hardly count.