16. Lemon #4
“I’m so glad you found such a beautiful dress,” Bonnie gushes.
“I honestly can’t believe it,” I start to say, but tears fill my eyes, and my throat thickens with emotion.
“Shall I store your dress at my place so Att won’t see it?” Tori offers.
“Do you mind? Since I moved in, our closet is fit to burst. Both Atticus and I have a bit of a clothes addiction,” I admit a little sheepishly.
“A bit of a clothes addiction,” Tori scoffs. “I’ve seen your closet, and it’s huge, but Cody is already having to build you guys an extension because you couldn’t fit a single thing more in there right now if you tried.”
The girls laugh, and I shrug sheepishly because it’s true.
After we unpacked my cases of clothes, we tried and failed to fit all of my things into Atticus’s beautifully organized closet.
I actually don’t own a crazy amount of clothes.
It’s more that the clothes I do own are big.
Full-skirted maxi dresses take up a lot of space, and once Cody finishes the add-on, Atticus is having the person who created his closet design my dream closet for me too.
To be honest, I still think it’s insane that Atticus and Felix agreed to extend the size of their brand-new loft only days after moving in to accommodate me, but every time I’ve brought it up, Atticus has assured me that it’s his fault for not taking Cody’s suggestion to make the loft bigger when they were working with the architect to build it in the first place.
Apparently, they built the loft using some kind of modular system, so adding on more rooms isn’t actually as big of a deal as it sounds.
The current loft only takes up about 30 percent of the available space, and all the suspended metal work has already been put in place to increase the size of the loft if they wanted to in the future.
According to Cody, they’ll build the walls and floors offsite and then just fix them into place like a Lego set.
The only damage to the current loft space will be to the guest bathroom, which will have to be taken out and then reinstalled against the new back wall and to the far wall in Atticus’s closet, which will be removed to open up the space into my closet.
“I’ve told Atticus we can make do, but he says he wants to give me the closet of my dreams as a wedding gift,” I tell them.
“Oh my god, that’s the sweetest gift ever,” Cora gushes.
Sighing wistfully, I nod. “It really is.”
“Beau just texted me. Clementine has a fever, and she’s asking for me. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I need to get home,” Bonnie says, urgency lacing her voice.
“Oh no, poor Clemmy,” Missy says softly.
“Lemon, we’ll drop you off, then—” Bonnie starts.
“I can walk. It’s only a few blocks from here, and I need to stop by the drugstore on the way home anyway,” I tell her.
“Are you sure?” she questions, her gaze moving to the van, then back to me.
“Absolutely. Go and take care of Clementine,” I assure her.
After a quick round of hugs, the girls climb into the van, and I wave them off as Bonnie pulls away from the curb.
Exhaling, I watch them drive away before I turn and start walking home.
When I spot the drugstore, I cross the street and open the door, stepping inside and making a beeline for the feminine hygiene products.
It’s been a while since I last had a period, and honestly, although I’m sure I have supplies somewhere, I’m not entirely sure where they are. I usually wear period panties, but as my entire underwear drawer went missing when I unpacked, I’ll have to order some new ones from when I get home.
Browsing the aisle, I grab some pads and some tampons and drop them into my basket.
Remembering that I’m almost out of the soap I like, I start to wander, grabbing things I need as I go.
I’m not sure how I end up standing in front of the pregnancy tests, but here I am, staring at the shelves of tests that promise early results, no lines, and even to tell you how pregnant you are.
“I’m not pregnant,” I say quietly.
“I’m not pregnant,” I say again as I slip a box off the shelf and into my basket.
“I’m not pregnant,” I whisper as I hand the cashier my card to pay.
“I’m not pregnant.”
I say the words over and over in my head as I walk the few blocks from the drugstore back to the warehouse.
Instead of the usual thumping house music that I’ve almost gotten used to hearing when I step through the warehouse doors, I’m hit with a rumbling bass that feels like it’s vibrating through the floor.
It’s still loud, but instead of being a wall of noise, this music makes me feel breathless and suffocated.
Felix is bent over his workbench, so focused on his huge clay angel that he doesn’t look up as I walk straight through his studio and up the stairs to the loft.
Atticus is still at work because he has clients all day today.
He likes it when I go and sit with him at the tattoo studio, but as we weren’t sure how long it would take me to find a dress, he’s not expecting me to go to him.
Making a beeline for our bedroom, I walk straight into the bathroom and place my bag down on the counter. I don’t know why, but instead of taking out all the things I bought, I take a step back and stare at the bag like I’m worried it’s going to attack me.
After a few long moments, I retreat, leaving the bag untouched, and head into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pulling out one of the bottles of peppermint iced mocha that Atticus keeps buying for me.
Unscrewing the lid, I take a long sip, then exhale and carry the bottle over to the couch with me. Sinking down into the cloud couch, I slip my feet out of my shoes, then pull my feet up, curling into a ball as I try to ignore the bag in the bathroom.
I’m not pregnant. I’m on birth control. It’s all in my head.
Only it feels like I can almost hear the test in the bathroom judging me. “You don’t buy pregnancy tests unless you think you’re pregnant,” the little voice in the back of my head taunts.
Turning the TV on, I try to tune the voices in my head out, but after an hour, all I can think about is the stupid, mocking, judging test. Jumping up from the couch, I march into the bathroom and tip the bag upside down on the counter.
Half of the things I bought roll onto the floor, and I close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I say to myself.
Crouching down, I pick up the bottles of shampoo and soap and stack them in the cabinet.
My eyes land on the box of pregnancy tests that have slid under the counter.
For a moment I consider leaving them there, hidden and forgotten about, but if I don’t take a test, I’ll never be able to put this stupid idea behind me.
I don’t want to, but I need to do the stupid test so I can prove what I already know. That I’m not pregnant. Because I’m not pregnant. I’m not.
My hands are shaking a little as I pick up the box and push to my feet with it gripped in my fingers. Instead of buying the fancy one that literally says pregnant or not pregnant, I got the basic one that you have to dip into a cup of pee.
I’ve never taken one before, but I’ve seen enough of the pregnancy test roulette videos on social media to know what to do. Wasting time, I put away everything other than the tests, then leave the box on the counter in the bathroom while I head back into the kitchen to find a cup to pee into.
Everything the interior designer who decorated the loft bought for them is fancy, but luckily, I find a pack of Solo cups at the back of the cabinet. Pulling one free from the stack, I carry it back into the bathroom with me.
Lifting my skirt, I sit down on the toilet and hold the cup beneath me, then pee, grimacing at the way the sound of the liquid hitting the cup seems to echo around the room. Once I’m done, I place the cup inside the sink, then clean up, moving it to the counter while I wash my hands.
With trembling fingers, I rip open the packet of tests and pull one free.
Outside of the foil packet, it’s just a thin strip of plastic with arrows at one end to show which side to dip.
Carefully lowering it into the cup, I immediately start to panic, realizing I’m not sure how long it has to stay dipped for.
Grabbing the box, I quickly read the instructions on the back, then count fifteen Mississippis in my head before I lift it out and place it carefully down on top of the foil wrapper on the counter.
The instructions say that you have to wait three minutes for the result, so I set a timer on my cell, then step back and back again until I’m in the doorway to the bedroom.
Part of me wants to throw it in the trash right now, but I know I won’t.
I need to know for sure. I need to know for my own peace of mind.
My gaze locks on the test, and even though I try, I can’t look away. I can’t really see the strip from here, but my mind convinces me that unless I’m watching it, it could miraculously grow legs and swap places with someone else’s test.
Oh god, I really am losing my mind, but I still don’t blink, my eyes hurting from how hard I’m staring. When the timer on my cell sounds, the air turns to concrete in my chest, and I can’t breathe.
After a second of feeling like my lungs have forgotten how to inflate, I suck in a huge gasping breath as lightheadedness makes the room spin and my vision go dark at the edges.
Turning off my cell, I try to move, but I feel frozen to the spot. My stomach is a swarm of butterflies, but I manage to take a step forward, then another, until the strip is right there, only inches from me, but I can’t look. I won’t look.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to inhale, then, as I exhale, I open my eyes and look down.
“Oh fuck.”