Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (20 page)

“No.”

“Then stop sulking,” she says. “Tell her.”

I take another sip. “That’s the thing. She doesn’t want me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Tammi asks.

“Yeah, she made it pretty fucking clear,” I say.

“Well I saw the two of you together, and I could see it,” Dennis says. “You love her, and I’m telling you, she loves you, too.”

“If she does—and I’m not saying she does—it isn’t enough,” I say.

“He’s really pathetic, isn’t he?” Dennis says.

Tammi nods. “I know.”

“Seriously?” I say. “Fucking fired. Both of you.”

“Maybe she just needs a little time,” Tammi says, completely ignoring me. “You do have a tendency to live like you’re the center of a whirlwind. It can be overwhelming.”

I think about our trip to San Diego. The airport. First class. The villa. “Yeah, I was good at overwhelming her.”

“Listen, you want my advice?” Tammi asks.

“No.”

“Give her a little space. Let things cool down, and then call her.”

“Tammi’s right,” Dennis says, leaning against the counter.

“I’m just so damn worried about her,” I say. “She made Curt leave yesterday. She’s out there all by herself.”

“She’s a grown woman, Jackson,” Tammi says. “She handled herself just fine before you swooped into her life. I’m pretty sure she’ll be okay. I know patience isn’t one of your virtues, but try it this time. Be patient with her. She’ll talk to you when she’s ready.”

“Sure, fine,” I say. “Now both of you, get the fuck out of here, or I’m definitely firing you.”

They share another infuriating smile and leave.

Love?
I’ve never been in love. Is that what this horrible ache is? Why would anyone want to feel like this? Life was a hell of a lot easier before I met her. But as shitty as I feel, I can’t regret it. I just don’t know what I’m going to do about it.

I found the one thing I want that my money can’t buy.

Adjusting to my life post-Jackson isn’t much fun. I box up all the clothes he bought for me and tuck them away in a closet. Even the shoes—especially the shoes. I hang out with friends, read books I can’t remember as soon as I finish them, and tinker with things around my house. Anything to fill my time and keep my mind off him.

The paparazzi eventually go away. They hang around town for a while, but news seems to get out that I’m no longer Jackson’s latest plaything. A few days later, they’re nowhere to be seen, and I insist that Curt and his cohorts go home. They’re nice guys, and they’ve only been doing their job, but their presence is suffocating. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. I can’t live like that.

I’m still not sure how things will shake out at work. I need to meet with my boss face to face to discuss what happened. I send him a long email, explaining as best I can—how the media chose the worst pictures. How I was on vacation with a friend, and he happened to be well-known. That I didn’t actually do anything wrong, other than be photographed with a public figure. He sends me a response that seems positive, but it’s hard to tell what the true consequences will be. I hate the thought of losing my job. But at the same time, if I can’t feel free to be myself when I’m on my own time, I’m not sure I want to deal with that. It calls into question everything I’ve planned for my future—but I decide that maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. I’ll live with a little uncertainty for a while, and decide what the best course of action is when things calm down. At least there won’t be any more photos of me circulating online.

I try to tell myself I did the right thing. Jackson and I are so different. It doesn’t make sense to keep seeing each other if we have no future. But the pain in my chest doesn’t go away. Not the first day, nor the second. A week goes by and I still feel awful. I start to wonder if I’m ever going to get over him. Even the guy I dated for two years just after college didn’t mess me up so badly. I missed him when we decided to part ways, but for the most part, I just went on with my life. I was sad, but nothing like this.

It doesn’t make any sense.

I wake up on a Wednesday morning and realize I’m out of coffee. That shit isn’t going to fly, and I’m out of other things as well, so I run to the store. I pick up some staples and when I come home, I turn on the TV, just for the background noise.

I open the cupboard in the bathroom to put away a package of toilet paper, and notice an unopened box of tampons. When did I buy those? And why are they still unopened?

My hands shake and I close the cupboard door. There is no way.

I start doing the math in my head. When did I last have a period? How long ago was it that I met Jackson? When were we in San Diego? What day is it?

I grab my phone and open the calendar. I definitely wasn’t on my period in San Diego. Nor the couple of weeks before. In fact, my last period ended the day before I met Jackson at Danny’s. I remember because when he told me I was coming back to his hotel with him, the thought went through my head:
my period is over, so maybe…

How long ago was that?

I flip through the calendar and start counting. I get to twenty-eight and keep going. Holy shit. Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five. Fifty.

Fifty-one.

My last period started fifty-one fucking days ago? How the hell did I not realize?

I don’t generally keep careful track of my cycles. I’m as regular as clockwork, and good about remembering to keep tampons in my purse, so it never catches me off guard. It starts, I cope with it, no big deal. I don’t think about it much in between.

The last couple months have been so damn crazy that I haven’t even thought about my cycle. But there’s no way I can deny it. I’m late. Really late.

Fucking hell.

I sit down on the couch, wondering what I should do. I think about calling Nicole, but I don’t want to freak her out unnecessarily. I slide my laptop over and Google
reasons for a late period
.

Stress. Yes, stress is a reason my period could be late. Could that make it
this
late? I have no idea, but I’ve been under plenty of stress. Maybe this thing with Jackson messed with me more than I realized. I believe in that whole mind-body connection stuff. I’ve been through a lot, so maybe my hormones are simply screwed up.

I put a hand on my belly. Shouldn’t I feel something? I Google again, looking for pregnancy symptoms. I’m not nauseated. I press my hands against my boobs—no soreness. I’m not sensitive to smells, and food tastes the same. No cramping, no unexplained back aches. No cravings. I go down the list and can honestly say I feel none of it. I have no symptoms.

I blow out a breath, trying to ignore the line at the bottom of the page that says,
Some women don’t experience symptoms in early pregnancy, so the presence or absence of any of these is not a reliable indicator
.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I grab my phone and sling my purse over my shoulder, heading out to my truck. I can’t sit around and wait for my period to start. Not knowing will drive me crazy, and at this point I’m late enough it doesn’t make sense to take the
wait and see
approach. I need to get a test.

But there’s no way I’m going to buy a home pregnancy test at Charlie’s Grocery. I know everyone who works there. And the gas station is out; I know everyone there, too. With everything that’s happened recently, I do not need rumors going around town about Melissa Simon buying pregnancy tests. Especially if I’m not actually pregnant—which I definitely am not. I just need to see the negative on a test. Then I’ll be sure, and I can stop worrying.

I drive forty-five minutes to another town. I wander through the grocery store, half-filling a cart with bullshit I don’t need, just so I won’t be buying nothing but a bunch of pregnancy tests. In the aisle of terror, I stare at the options. They’re right next to the condoms and lube, across the aisle from all the feminine hygiene stuff. Interesting placement. I have no idea which one to buy, so I get several of each brand. Maybe one is better than the others, and if the test isn’t clear, I want to be able to take another one. I am
not
coming back to the store to buy more.

At the checkout counter, I’m sure the cashier can hear my heart racing. It feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. I keep my sunglasses on, and thumb through a magazine, trying to avoid meeting the woman’s eye. She doesn’t say anything past the usual niceties. I pay and get myself out of there as quickly as I can.

The drive home is agony. Why did I go so far? It’s the stupidest thing, to drive two towns away just to go to the damn store. The gas gauge on my truck is dangerously low, and I squeeze the steering wheel, hoping the gas light won’t go on. I don’t want to stop. I’m trembling with nervousness and feel sick to my stomach. Fuck, is that a pregnancy thing? Or am I just scared?

When I get home, I bring the bags in and run to the bathroom. I need to pee something fierce, but I’ve been holding it, knowing I’ll need it for the test.

With my stomach still roiling, I take out one of the tests. I make myself breathe and read the instructions. It’s pretty straightforward. Take off the protective cover. Place in urine stream. Set face up on the counter or other flat surface. Wait three minutes.

I follow the instructions, leave it sitting on the counter, and set a timer on my phone. I can’t bear to wait in the same room, so I wash my hands and pace through my house. It’s the longest three minutes of my life.

My phone dings and it feels like my heart stops. It will be negative. It has to be negative. We used protection. I don’t want to think about the whole
not one hundred percent
bullshit they put on condom boxes. I need to go look. My fears will be put to rest, and I can call Nicole and tell her what a psycho I’ve been. She’ll get a great laugh out of the whole thing.

I creep into the bathroom, my hand covering my eyes, like I’m watching a horror movie and I’m too scared to look. The test is supposed to be easy to read, with either a big
Pregnant
or
Not Pregnant
showing in the display window. I part my fingers, peering down at the test, and almost throw up.

Pregnant.

I sit on the exam table, the sheet of white paper crinkling beneath me. My stomach is sour—whether from nerves or the baby making its presence known, I can’t tell. I bounce my heel against the side of the table and fidget, wringing my hands in my lap. I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life.

After taking my vitals and having the gall to make me step on a scale, the nurse left me in the room, letting me know the doctor would be in shortly. I don’t bother to correct her. I’m not here to see the doctor; I’m here to see the nurse practitioner. I asked for Addy specifically. She’s who I see regularly. I’ve known her a long time, and I know she’ll be straight with me.

The door opens and my mouth drops open. “Fucking hell.”

Cody glances up from his clipboard and his brow furrows. “Oh, hey, Melissa.” He comes in and shuts the door behind him. “Sorry, I hadn’t looked at the name. I didn’t realize it was you.”

“I made an appointment with Addy Martin,” I say. “Not with you.”

“Addy’s home with the flu, so I’m covering her patients. I’m sorry, the front desk should have told you.”

“They didn’t.”

Cody takes a deep breath. He’s in a blue-on-blue button-down shirt and tie, with a pair of khaki slacks. “Do you want to reschedule?”

Cody isn’t a bad guy. But this is not the sort of thing you want to discuss with your best friend’s fiancé’s brother. Plus, I’ve known Cody since we were kids. It’s so awkward.

But since I’m already here. “No,” I say, slumping down a little. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” he says. He sits down on the round rolling stool, facing me. “What’s going on?”

“Can you tell me if all these could be false positives?” I ask. I pull out a plastic shopping bag full of pregnancy tests.

Cody raises his eyebrows and looks in the bag, shifting the contents around to see what’s inside.

“How many?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “A dozen?”

“All positive?”