“You look like crap,” Panda says, eyeing me.
Anna gives Panda a reprimanding look while Kayla shakes her head.
“Gee, Pandora Wilkens . . .” I put my purse and laptop bag on the bench beside me. “Please don’t hold back on my account.”
“I mean”—she looks at my friends and gestures to me—“you always look . . . glamorous, but what’s up with the bags under your eyes?” She gives me a devilish grin. “Is the harem open for business again?”
“I’d be glowing if it were the case, wouldn’t I?” I take a much-needed sip of wine. Kayla grins, touching her glass to mine. “Our company is going through major changes. I’ve been working crazy hours.” The truth is, it’s been indeed stressful at work. However, I might have put in some (many) unnecessary extra hours. Drowning yourself in work tends to keep your mind from drifting to places better left unvisited. Like that place where your heart doesn’t just hurt but bleeds from missing and wanting someone so much.
“So, what’s up with everyone?” I haven’t seen my friends for over three weeks now, not since I decided to bury myself in work. Ever since, I singlehandedly broke my own heart by letting Ricky go.
“I’ll go first,” Anna beams. “I’m working on a yoga video subscription project, and there are negotiations with a local, women-owned yoga apparel company specializing in everything from inclusive sizes to multipurpose designs.”
“That’s wonderful.” Panda claps her hands.
“So happy for you, Bean.” I give my sister a side-hug.
Kayla raises her glass. “Cool.”
“Funny you should mention a video subscription project. Okay, this is a little crazy,” Panda says, laughing. “But Jonathan and I started recording short skits for kids where I’m a teacher, and he’s a ranger. It sort of explores science and general knowledge topics for kids.”
“How the hell did you come up with that idea?” Kayla asks, voicing our collective thoughts.
Panda’s cheeky laughter is a warning to whatever is about to leave her mouth. “We dabbled in some role-playing, and well . . . ”
“You filmed it, and it made you think of making videos for kids?” I shake my head with a broad smile, a smile that matches the ones my friends are sporting.
Panda laughs. “Eww, don’t say it like that! It’s completely innocent.”
“You’re so twisted,” Kayla says with a grin.
“Hey, Kayla,” a deep drawl has us all turn to the orator.
Kayla turns to the guy now standing by her side. A tall and handsome guy—if tattoos and grunge are your thing. “Oh, hi, Jax. How did it go? Are we still meeting tonight at Kev’s?”
While all eyes are on this Jax person, who’s exceptionally easy on the eyes, mine as if magnetized, turn to Ricky as he makes his way to our table. A feeling I have no name for washes over me. It’s a mix of longing and overpowering vulnerability. As if my guards dissipate near him. Like I can’t hide what I’m feeling, what I think, or what I want, and it scares me. No one has ever held such power over me.
“Jax is our new lead; this is Anna, Pandora . . . ” Kayla introduces the new guy, but I listen with half an ear.
Whatever is happening in my chest is the physical representation of anguish. I didn’t think stopping what we had would be this painful. Some things are easier said than done.
Ricky holds my stare, nearing our group, his expression unfathomable. My eyes run over him, starved. Taking in everything, from the way he carries himself with confidence, how even in a white tee and distressed jeans he looks like he belongs on a magazine cover, and mostly his rapt attention on me.
“Hey, stranger,” Kayla says when she notices him.
He squeezes her shoulder, and I find myself jealous of the simple gesture. Ricky nods in response to my friends’ mixed greetings. I smile at him, but no matter how much I try, I know that what I’m feeling is clearly transpired through my attempt at a smile.
A waitress walking toward our table smiles at Ricky with familiarity, and my stomach drops a little more. He thanks her as she offers him a glass from her round tray. “This one’s on Matt.” Her smile grows.
Holding the beverage in his hand, Ricky glances at the table. The only vacant space in the booth is next to me. Tension seizes me as I anticipate his proximity. It’s quickly replaced by a pang to my chest when he chooses to keep an empty space between us. I wince, feeling a little nauseous. Sorrow aside, my body is being a bit of a drama queen. Nausea, really?
When the rest of our group falls into conversation with Jax, who remains standing next to Kayla, I turn to Ricky. Sensing my attention, he lifts his eyes from the shot glass he’s been slowly circling on the table.
“How are you?” I ask.
He studies me for a few tense beats. He opens his mouth to speak and closes it. He drops his stare to the glass he’s been fiddling with, then lifts them back to me. “How are you, Bab-Vic?” he asks, diverting my question.
Heartbroken jumps to my mind, but I hold it hostage and let, “Great, busy, you know,” leave my lips. I’ve dealt with some shit in my life and always managed to keep my head up and never mope. As much as the gap between us hurts, I’m going to toughen up and move on as I always do. I even throw in a fake easy smile.
Ricky eyes me silently, his eyes running over me.
“Jax, why don’t you join us?” Kayla asks, cutting the tension.
Jax nods and glances at the free space between Ricky and me. He gestures with his beer bottle for Ricky to scoot next to me.
Ricky glances at me with a stare that I’m sure will leave a burn scar on me and stands up. “I got to dip anyway.”
The difference between us is that while I still manage to appear somewhat okay, he wears his heart on his sleeve. His features remain stoned over when he departs from our group.
“What crawled up Sir Rock Star’s fine ass?” Panda asks no one in particular.
I choose to focus on my phone as if it holds the answer to eternal youth. I let them fall back into conversation and text Ricky, opting for breezy and friendly.
Victoria to Ricky: Hey, you didn’t have to leave. Didn’t we agree on joint custody of our friends?
Ricky to Babe: I had to.
I frown at the phone; two new messages arrive in a matter of seconds. The first is a blow to my stomach. The second one nearly rips my heart out.
Ricky to Babe: I can’t do this. It’s too hard, Vic.
Ricky to Babe: I can’t pretend I don’t want you.
I drop the phone in my purse and do my best to pay attention to my friends while ignoring the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that takes everything I have to keep from retching up my dinner.
You Can Take Everything Else, Just Leave My Coffee
“Sure you don’t want me to get you a coffee?” Adrian studies me suspiciously, repeating his question.
The confusion he manifests . . . seems like we both feel the same way. I frown, thinking how just the thought of coffee makes me want to hurl. I’ve been physically off for some time now. At first, I thought I had caught a stomach bug or some virus that would pass soon. But c’mon! Now I can’t even stand the thought of coffee!
“Something else, then?” He keeps watching me skeptically.
“Sparkling water.” The only thing I believe I can stomach right now. “Ice cold, please.”
His eyes narrow as he cocks his head. “Just water? Maybe something to go with it?” A smile plays at his lips when he adds, “I’m just making sure so you won’t hog my food again.”
“No,” I say absently, my eyes on the report on my screen. “I can’t even look at food. Just the thought makes me nauseous.”
I lift my eyes from the screen to Adrian looking at me funny. “You’re still here?” I ask flatly.
He cracks a smile. “How about ginger ale and saltines?”
“What?” I ask absently, splitting my attention between him and work.
“My mom swore by the combo when she was pregn
ant with my younger brother, helps with nausea.”
“Do we have the DNBA contract back from the lawyers yet?” I ask.
Adrian pushes himself from the wall. “I’ll call them,” he says and walks out of the room.
Only then do his word dawn on me. When she was pregnant with my younger . . . helps with nausea. I blink at the door he just walked out of, frowning.
“No effing way. I can’t be,” I murmur to myself as I pull up the cycle tracker app—the one I do a half-assed job keeping up to date. The only time I really give it any attention is when I’m planning vacations, especially the bikini-wearing kind.
My stomach turns tight when I notice how late I am. Three weeks. But then again, that might not be right. The app is more of a guesstimate rather than a precise indication, and I have slacked off on keeping track of things properly. I sit back in my chair, thinking of the past three weeks or so, trying to remember when nausea and the overall meh feeling started.
Oh my God! This can’t be happening. I chance a glance at the door, making sure no one is walking by, and lift my hands to palm my breasts, sizing them. Even though they feel fuller, I still vehemently dismiss it. It’s just my frantic mind conjuring crap. Biologically, it’s impossible, and I have more than a few test results to prove it.
A two percent chance echoes in my mind. “Nonsense,” I breathe the word, standing up. I tuck my shirt into my skirt and grab my phone before leaving the room for my next meeting.
“Miriam!” I smile at my boss’s assistant. “You’re back! How was Florida? How is your sister doing?”
“Victoria.” She smiles, rising to stand. She engulfs me into an embrace consisting of a healthy bosom and a heavy honeysuckle scent. This time, the familiar fragrance feels like an assault, shooting the banana I had for breakfast up to my throat.
She lets me go, and I feel a little heady. In a couple of joy-laced sentences, she tells me about her visit with her sister, and that’s as long as I can hold it in. “Tell them I’m only going to be a minute,” I say and bolt to the restrooms, the rapid tempo of my high heels echoing from the hardwood.
Luckily the toilets are vacant, and there’s no audience for the retching sounds coming from my stall. When I finally straighten to a stand after a couple of heaving rounds, I’m a little unsteady.
I rinse my mouth a couple of times with cold water and then let the stream run over my wrists as I attempt to compose myself. Ignoring the voices in my head, I enter the meeting with squared shoulders and my I-mean-business attitude.
It feels like the narrow box in front of me is staring me down. Not taking my eyes off the clear blue package, I take another sip of courage from the glass of wine and then another one, for good measure.
I send my hand under my shirt, unclasping my bra. Shrugging it off, I throw it into the next seat. Why am I anxious to take the test when I already know the result will be negative? Why did I even buy the thing? Never have I imagined a scenario of buying one. I snort at the absurdity of the situation. Me, Victoria Nielsen, about to take a pregnancy test—preposterous.
I gulp down some more wine. My eyes rip open when I realize that maybe I shouldn’t be doing it if I’m . . . I spit the wine back into the glass like a true lady and inwardly mock myself. With alcohol consumption in mind, my memory jumps to three weeks ago, back to the night Ricky and I had that crazy boozefest. Dear Dior, if there’s indeed a little human growing in me, I probably damaged it for life that night. Or maybe that alleged baby human was conceived that night. Classy. My thoughts then take another no less disturbing direction. That night . . . with the imaginary baby’s daddy. A baby with Ricky. Oh, how I hate the seed of hope that blooms in me.
I look at the wine again, regretting spitting it back into the glass, immediately considering how gross it would be if I drink it anyway. Dignity and grace have left the building.
A little disgusted with my cowardly, obsessive behavior, I push back from the chair, grab the box, and stride to the bathroom with my head held high. Time to put this nonsense to rest.
I’m surprised to find my hands shaking as I open the bathroom door ten minutes later. I waited five minutes more for good measure. It took everything I had not to rush into the bathroom every second that passed. I clamp one hand over the other, forcing my body to stop the overdramatic anxiety, only to realize the tremors are coming from within.
I take a deep breath and grab the stick that’s about to confirm I’m overacting. Only it doesn’t—two red lines. Dumbfounded, I collapse to sit on the toilet. For what seems like hours, I stare blankly at the stick. And then, I grab my purse and go to the pharmacy to get four more tests.
Sometimes 2% Is All You Need
“Yeah, I know that PID can be cured, but mine wasn’t diagnosed in time. By the time I was diagnosed, there were already complications—scarring.”
Liam, my sister’s boyfriend, and a trauma surgeon, studies me astutely. “Of the fallopian tubes,” he states, and I nod in confirmation.
I smile grimly. “They gave a promising two percent chance of me ever getting pregnant.”
“With a significant chance of an ectopic pregnancy, I’m guessing,” he adds in a severe tone.
I nod again. He scratches his brow, trading a glance with my sister, Anna, sitting next to me, following our conversation.
“They told me the chances are less than slim. So . . . how . . .?”
“It’s not my area of expertise, but sometimes two percent is all it takes.” He trades another stare with my sister. Returning his full attention to me, he asks, “How do you feel about it?”
I hold a throw pillow to my stomach protectively. I give him a bemused smile and shake my head. “I really don’t know. I still can’t believe it.”
“I suggest you get a blood test and talk to your OB as soon as possible. Should you decide to keep the pregnancy, you’ll have to be monitored. Symptoms of an ectopic pregnancy usually develop as early as the fourth week of pregnancy.”
There’s no doubt about it. Four home pregnancy tests confirmed it in eight bold, persistent red lines.
“Decide to keep it?” my sister asks, bewildered. “What do you mean? Of course she’ll keep it.” She frowns at her boyfriend.
Liam holds her gaze, saying, “Her body, her choice.”
Anna turns to me. “You’ll keep it, right?”
For a whole moment, I just look at her. “I never thought it was an option. This is,” I huff a troubled breath. I look at Liam, then back at my sister before saying, “Maybe this is the one chance I ever get? Up until now, I knew it wasn’t an option for me at all, and now . . . ” I trail off.
I let out a laugh that’s lacking any humor or energy. “People will think that I’m such a phony.” I’ve pretended that I didn’t want this for so long. I started to believe my lie. Putting yourself in a certain box is a process; like building a brand. Getting yourself out of that box . . . it feels impossible. “What do you say then, hey, hi, sorry, but the thing is, I sort of lied to you all this time. Funny thing is I want to have kids. I want that life. But hey, we’re still friends, right?”
Anna’s lips round before she frowns. Her voice comes out a little loud when she says, “Who cares? Who cares what other people think?”
I shake my head with a self-deprecating smile. “I am the person who preached to anyone who’d listen about no-commitment relationships and, god forbid, settling down and having kids. I was the leader of the anti-kids movement.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, and remember I’m always on your side,” she says. “But don’t you think it might have been some sort of defense mechanism?”
My eyes drop to my hands and rise back to my sister.
“The only person you should worry about is Ricky.” When I drop my eyes to my hands again, she asks. “Does he know?”
“I just found out, and I wanted to talk to you and Liam. Try to make sense of it.” Right after, I deploy yet another bomb. “I bought a ticket to Jutland,
a red-eye. Tonight.”
“Wait a minute, you did what?” Anna asks, startled.
“I’m going to visit Dad for a few days. I need some time away to think things over.”
Anna blinks at me.
“I’m going to talk to Ricky and then leave. I need a few days to process this.” I see the pure confusion in her eyes. “It’s a lot. I just need some time.”
Anna throws Liam a glance. These two communicate in a whole different, unspoken language. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, Bean, but I need to do this alone.”
I feel like there’s some internal work to be done. I need to have a long and hard conversation with . . . myself. To think and be true with myself. To figure out what I really want. Because at this point, I don’t know. I’ve been wearing this mask for so long. So long that it feels like an attempt to remove it is like ripping my own skin off.
Maybe It’s Time…or Maybe It’s Not
While on the phone, Amanda holds up a red manicured finger, commanding, wait! Blake Alvin, my producer, sends his eyes to the ceiling yet remains quiet as she finishes her call.
I wait in the chair next to Blake, agitated. I trust Blake, and I’m more than pleased with the final creations, but I know full well that it stands and falls on Amanda’s decision. What can I say? She knows what she’s doing. I’m walking, talking proof of it.
Finishing her call, Amanda puts her phone on the table facing down. “Okay, show me what you got.”
Blake presses a couple of buttons on the control desk, and the music we created together fills the room, starting with soft tunes. Amanda, in her tailored white suit, leans back on the chair and closes her eyes. While Blake stands up and starts pacing, I watch Amanda closely, searching for signs. Her eyes remain closed, face stoic, giving away nothing.
As the first song ends, still in the same position with her eyes closed, she says, “Play the rest of them.”
by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2 Page 17