I open the new box and dump the instructions onto my lap. I carefully unwrap the stick and hold it against the instructions. Just like the one I already took, it’s simple. Pee on stick, set stick down, wait for results, and stare blankly at stick as your heart practically beats out of your chest. Easy as pie!
So once again, I crouch over the toilet and go a little before setting the stick on the corner of the sink. Then I set the timer on my phone for the recommended waiting period. Oh god, this is pure torture. My bathroom is small, but there’s just enough room for me to pace. After what seems like hours, the timer finally buzzes.
A part of me wants to ignore the stick, except it’s the elephant in the room that also happens to be braying like a donkey. I need to know for sure, though, so I take a step closer and breathe in deeply before letting out all the air in my lungs. Okay. I can do it. Stepping forward once more, I pick up the stick with a shaking hand. Oh god. Two pink lines. Positive.
I am now one hundred percent certain that I’m pregnant.
With my back against the bathroom door, I slide to the floor, still clutching the test in my hand. “Shit,” I say out loud to no one. “How could this happen?”
I think back to the last time I had sex, which isn’t hard to remember at all. Because the last time I had sex was two months ago at Trent’s party. He didn’t use a condom, and he came inside of me many, many times. I thought I was on the pill, but between the stress of planning the party and the heady excitement of being with the billionaire, I must have forgotten my birth control. I do that sometimes when I’ve got a big event to deal with, but it’s never mattered before. I don’t usually sleep with my clients. And the one time I do, I wind up pregnant! Just my luck.
I have to tell Trent, though. He may not have tried to contact me after our hookup that night, but he deserves to know that he’s going to be a father. Plus, I don’t know if I can do this on my own. Raising a child takes a village, and right now, I need every resource I can get my hands on.
My phone sits on the sink where I left it, so I get up off the bathroom floor and pick it up. Thank God I still have Trent’s contact information programmed into my phone from planning the party.
I scroll through my contacts to find Trent’s company phone number and hit dial. The phone rings a couple of times before a friendly voice picks up.
“Moore Technology, this is Wanda speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi Wanda,” I mumble, trying to hide the nervousness in my voice. “My name is Katie, and I own the catering and event planning business that hosted Mr. Moore’s masquerade ball two months ago. I was wondering if I could speak with him?”
To my surprise, she answers right away.
“One moment, please.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds before clicking back on again. But then the bad news comes.
“I’m sorry, Katie, but Mr. Moore is unable to take your call.”
“Oh,” I say, flabbergasted. What should I do? “Um, can I leave a message?”
But this Wanda person is suddenly uber-protective of her boss. Maybe she’s had practice fending off random women who call the company line.
“May I ask what your business is with Mr. Moore?” she asks frostily.
“Um, it’s personal,” I tell her. There is no way I’m going to reveal my pregnancy by leaving a message with this employee.
“Then I will let Mr. Moore know you called,” she replies. With that, Wanda hangs up the phone.
I stare at my now blank screen. That was strange. It was almost like she saw my name on a list and went from kind receptionist to bitchy robot. In fact, Wanda reminded me of Amanda at the end there. Amanda probably trained her personally.
But what should I do now? My mind seizes upon Amanda. After all, the blonde was my contact throughout the entire party planning process. She may hate my guts, but maybe I can convince her to patch me through to Trent?
I don’t want to, but I’m desperate at this point. This would all be so much easier if I’d just gotten his personal number at some point that night. Surely we could’ve squeezed in exchanging our contact info between sex positions?
So heaving a huge sigh, I scroll through my contacts for Amanda’s info. This might be my only hope. Her phone rings for what seems like forever, but she answers just before I give up.