Chapter 80

The One With A Scare

A R I E L L E

I push the cart forward a bit and we stop at the section that holds all of the items one would need while showering. Nate glances at the options before him, grabbing a bottle from the shelf. He pops the cap open, inhaling the scent.

“What about this, babe? Do you like it?”

I give him a small smile, “Does it matter?”

He chuckles, “I’d be afraid if I chose the wrong scent that you’d never let me fuck you again.”

Laughter leaves my lips, “I don’t think that’s possible. You always smell fuckin’ good.” It’s like a secret talent of his—even when he’s sweaty and shouldn’t smell nice, he’s delectable.

A smirk plays on his mouth and he holds out the soap bottle in my direction. I take a good inhale of it, nearly choking when the musk fills my nostrils. It’s horrid, like old, worn leather that’s seen too much ass. I turn my head quickly, trying to hide my expression.

“I’ll get this one then, yeah?” He’s teasing me, hovering the damn thing in the cart.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not, love? I thought you said it’s not possible for me to smell bad.” As he reiterates what I said to him only moments ago, he approaches me, with that gorgeous lazy smile of his.

“I was wrong,” I breathe, reaching for the bottle. I grab his hand, urging it back to the shelf. “Now put that shit back where it fuckin’ belongs.”

Nate chuckles lowly, grabbing another brand. He opens the cap, not even bothering to test it himself. Instead, he immediately places it beneath my nose for my approval. When I take a breath of it in, I close my eyes, humming in approval.

Much better.

He seems pleased with that, tossing it into our cart. He continues walking down the aisle, eventually turning into the next and I follow him through the various pharmaceutical items throughout the shelving.

He eventually reaches for an extra large box of condoms—as if we need them or have ever used them, really—before turning towards me with this massive goofy smile. I roll my eyes at him, pursing my lips to keep from laughing. “You’re such a child.”

He does this adorable laugh that makes my heart melt in my chest. It’s the cutest fucking thing—where his eyes crinkle and his tongue presses up against the backs of his teeth.

As he puts the box back on the shelf, he points to the section of lube and snickers. “Don’t think we need any of that, yeah?”

Someone near us clears their throat and as I look to see who it is, I find an older lady clutching at her necklace while skeptically eyeing up both of our bodies and the tattoos inked onto them—as well as our un-ringed wedding fingers. She looks both terrified and judgmental, nonetheless, Nate apologizes to her, taking a step back to allow her to pass. I glare at her as she heads down the aisle, until she turns the corner.

Peering back at the shelving, my eyes find a bright pink container that holds a pregnancy test and I can’t explain it, but this indescribable feeling washes over my entire body.

When I glance further down the aisle, I notice all the tampons, pads, and other feminine products stacked upon one another. That’s when it occurs to me what the feeling I felt just moments ago was—panic.

When’s the last time I had my period? Holding my hands out, I try to do the math on my fingers, but I honestly can’t recall. My mind races into such a terror, that I can’t think clearly.

Was it four weeks ago? Six? Why can’t I remember? What the fuck is going on?

With shaky hands, I reach inside my handbag, grabbing my phone. I rifle through the items, which now seems like way too many things, until I finally find what I’m looking for. I’m trembling so badly that I drop it to the floor and with all the blood in my body rushing in my ears, I barely hear it.

I pick it up, unlocking it with my thumbprint. As I finally open the application that tracks my cycle, I wait with short breaths until it loads after what seems like forever. The second it pops up, I see the yellow-coloured circle that states I’m fifteen days late.

The air leaves my lungs in a harsh exhale—as if someone’s punched me hard in the chest.

Am I pregnant? It isn’t possible, is it? I’ve been on birth control since before I ever even met Nate. I mean, there’s that tiny little chance where the pill can still cause pregnancy, but I’ve consistently taken my pill. I’ve never forgotten a dose. I’ve always found it important because I know that I’m not ready to have a child.

I’m not ready to have a child. I could repeat that a million times over. Mentally, emotionally, financially—I’m absolutely not ready to become a mother. I don’t know that I ever will be. I had this conversation with Nate once, only days ago while we were still in Canada. About how I grew up with such a bad, abusive mother, that I don’t know how I could ever be a good parent.

Images of diapers, baby bottles, breast feedings, sleepless nights, jumpers, crying, puking, onesies—it all flashes before me in a blur. Of the smallest human with big doe-like eyes and long eyelashes being cradled in Nate ‘s tattooed arms.

“Arielle? Babe?” Nate ‘s voice brings me back to the present, where he’s now somehow holding my cell phone, gently grasping my elbow with concern etched on his features. “What’s wrong? It’s like you’ve seen a ghost.”