Archive of Our Own

Nope, that’s it. I can’t take it anymore-

“Conrad,”

♪ ♬  She’s runnin’ out the door, She’s runnin’ out, She run, run, run- ♪ ♬

“Conrad.”

He glances up at me, the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a bit of poppy seed dressing that had accumulated on the corner of his lips, sliding his forest green headphones down around the back of his neck.

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to like…eat that outside or something.”

His lips part, mouth upturning with an incredulous scoff, squeaking out a light, 

“Excuse me?”

“Did you use the entire shaker of garlic powder?”

“Wow, okay,” he says, smile widening.

I giggle watching him dramatically scoot one of our new dining chairs back, plate of pale chicken breast and semiraw green beans in hand, heading toward the back door.

“I love you!” I call out in consolation, and I can still hear the smile on his lips as he shoots me back a playful “yeah, yeah”.

So grad school, as it turns out, is a lot of fucking work. The further you go, the harder it gets. My year at Sorbonne was work, don’t get me wrong, but it seems now like a cakewalk compared to this. And I mean I guess I should have known, I spent almost every single night waiting for my lease to be up in Paris on the phone with Conrad listening to an exhausted retelling of his day until three in the morning my time. And yeah I know an M.D. is more intensive and demanding than an M.S. in sport-psych but I think I’ve decided that I do, in fact, have it worse than he did. Because, whereas Conrad lived alone for the entirety of pre-clinical, I’m living with him. With him here, in our townhouse in Palo Alto. With him, in our townhouse in Palo Alto, looking like he does, and smelling warm and like oak moss and sea salt and trying to christen every freshly painted corner of it every chance he gets.

I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s determined to break me- like physically; dislocate my hips, and my wrists. A place all our own, with decently thick walls, was apparently all the invitation Conrad needed to bring to fruition every fantasy he had during our year of long distance. Bending me over the table to thank me for surprising him with a candlelit dinner after an especially long day, on the counter beside the hissing Nespresso an hour later while making coffee to have with dessert, on the floor next to the table, tiramisu half-eaten, forty-five minutes after that (after he tried having me ride him at said table only to be interrupted by the sound of cheap rattan splitting beneath us- hence the new chairs). In our bed..on our bed..beside our bed, on the sofa, against the wall, in the shower- on top of our washing machine was a favorite, second only to being bent over his desk, I think; I’ve actually considered just not wearing panties around the house. He’s inside of me more than he isn’t, it just seems more efficient. I’m always a little sore, and always have some kind of bruise or abrasion. I had to use the “burned myself with my curling iron” excuse on one of my advisors to explain away a particularly unconcealable hickey the other day, like I was sixteen again and lying to my mom. It’s that bad. Conrad told me he wants me to start taking a multivitamin, as if he isn’t the culprit.

All of this is to say that despite how time consuming my academic pursuits and their looming deadlines are, my boyfriend occupies like seventy percent of my time refusing to get off of me. Not that I’ve said no- except that one night when we got home after meeting a few of his friends for a drink, and Conrad and I had basically split a bottle of Dominus, and I told him I wanted him to fight me for it. So maybe bending me over his desk was my second favorite…anyway, my point is that I’m blaming him. Blaming him for how much more difficult this year has been; him and his incessant need to get me naked.

But these last two weeks have been exceptionally hard. I’ve been, um, let’s call it…discomposed. More so than usual. And that’s probably(definitely) putting it lightly. I’ve been cramming for winter quarter finals and enrolling in spring quarter classes, and looking into what they’ll be offering for summer quarter. I’ve been leaning toward just taking the summer off, with the way I’ve been feeling (a decision Conrad supports). I had been used to a semester system, in high school and at Finch and Sorbonne, and this new pace is kicking my ass. That’s ultimately what I think it comes down to.

Conrad has always been patient, and understanding, and attentive- but I’ve really been putting those qualities to the test. And he hasn’t faltered, not once. Not when I snapped at him last weekend for tapping the ferrule of his pencil too loudly while muttering “forty-seven across: eight letter word for silicone soother” for the twelfth time. Not when I nearly broke down in tears after forgetting one of our mugs wasn’t dishwasher safe. Not when I woke him up at two in the morning, while slipping back into bed, stress eating stale Peeps Gingerbread Men that I had found the day before while avoidantly cleaning our pantry.

He’s also been taking care of things that I usually would; laundry, vacuuming, dusting. He already does the the lion's share of chores, and takes care of any repairs that may pop up around the house. Oh and he just helped me make like three-hundred flashcards. And he’s been doing pretty much all of the grocery shopping, which again, I would do or, usually, we’d do together. On top of his own studying, and working clinical rotations.

Basically what I’m saying is I kind of have the most wonderful boyfriend who’s ever lived, or whatever. It’s annoying actually. It’s making the whole study instead of have sex with him thing that much harder, and it was already a nearly impossible task. But if I’m being honest, these last two weeks included, I have never been happier. This is all I’ve ever wanted since I can remember wanting anything, and it’s even better than I’d dreamt it.

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I hear him before I see him; his footfall down our stairs. I lay my pen in the crease of my open Clinical Kinesiology textbook, trying to commit to memory which section I read last so I don’t get lost.

“Hey,” I say with a smile as I look up at him from where I'm curled up in my spot on the sofa. He keeps his eyes on something over my shoulder when he first approaches, I can’t place what. When he finally does meet my gaze it's fleeting, and he looks...troubled.

“Hey..” he says, and I can already hear the anxiety in his tone. I sit up a little straighter, a strange feeling starting to take shape in my stomach.

“You…okay?”

“Um,” he starts, shoulders visibly tense, “can we talk?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah of course.” I say, setting my things to the side of me.

He’s fidgeting; his fingertips are tapping together at his side like he’s sending Morse code. He hazards another brief look at me, his throat bobbing in a swallow, the vein in his neck a bit more pronounced.

“I think..” he says- and now he isn’t looking at me again…why won't he look at me..“I think I’m going to go stay at my dad’s for a little bit.” he says in one breath, like he just wanted to get the words out; the way you would rip a band-aid off.

I truly think I’ve misheard him at first.

“Um…” I start, almost waiting for him to loosen up a bit and tell me that he's joking, or tell me that he somehow misspoke, “..what?”

“Just for a few days. Maybe a week.” he says, and the throw pillows opposite me are suddenly fascinating. My eyes are searching his turned face, staggered.

“I don’t..I don’t understand..” I say, and he meets my eyes with his again, “like, you’re going to Boston?”

“Yeah..” he says, bringing a hand up to chafe the skin of his bicep, “I think I need..a little..space..” he murmurs quietly and, again, I’m waiting for him to say he’s kidding. I’m ready for him to tell me that this is some stupid, thoughtless, traumatizing prank. But he doesn’t do that, in fact he looks like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I feel like I've had the wind knocked out of me. All I can do is sit there staring at him, in a kind of shock.

“I..” slips out, my lips staying parted but I can’t seem to speak. I slowly withdraw my legs from under the chenille throw they were cocooned in, turning my body to fully face his, placing my feet flat to the floor in some kind of subconscious effort at grounding, “what’s…I mean- is there something I..” Did? Said?

“No, it’s not-” he starts, sighing a little with a shake of his head and a glance down at the rug, “saying I need space sounds…not space, I just..I don’t know, I think I need…to be alone for a bit, does that..does that make sense?”

Um, no, no it really doesn’t.

“Need space…from me?”

“Belly..”

Why does my name sound so much like you’re breaking up with me-

I feel a lump begin to swell in my throat. I feel like the room is rushing around me, like everything is moving at fifty miles an hour while I’m sat still.

“Wait-” I say, desperately, “can we just- can we please back up?” I bargain softly, standing warily, nausea rising up through my body, swallowing and instantly regretting it.

“I really don’t want to talk about it…I just,” he says, and I’m staring up at him, eyes stinging and fuck do not cry, do not cry, you are overreacting, “I need to figure some things out.”

I feel lightheaded.

“Conrad…” I say calmly, carefully, like I’m afraid of scaring him away, “Look, I’m- I’m totally fine with that,” I lie, my voice shaky, teeth threatening to chatter from the adrenaline, “can..can you just explain to me what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on…it’s just me. I just..need a little time away.”

It’s not you, it’s me?

“My,” he starts again, as I stand there mouth ajar trying to process, “flight leaves in..” he looks down, twisting his watch, and I can see a slight tremor in his hand, “about three hours, can we…” he says, surely trailing off because he can see the look beginning to form on my face, “please don’t-”

“Wait- w-wait,” I say again, shaking my head, “you’re leaving…today? Tonight?”

My entire body is trembling now, and I know he can see it. The last bit of calm I had been trying to hold onto was slipping. This was all happening too fast- I can’t breathe. What the fuck is going on-

“Belly I swear this isn’t…it’s not about you- it’s me, it’s about me. Please don’t do this..” he says, like I am the fucking crazy one.

“Conrad-”

“Listen.." he says, immediately cutting me off, "I’m going to spend a few days away..you’ll study, I’ll..figure some stuff out. I’ll come back, and then we can talk.”

“Figure what out? I don’t-” I start, but I can see him begin to shut down at that, and immediately correct, “You don’t have to tell me- I just mean-”

“Belly, I just need some time away.” he says firmly, eyes now unwaveringly set on mine; his eye contact is bruising, and for once I wish he would look away. “I need to think," he continues, "I need you to let me have that, for a few days, okay?”

To think.

To think…about us. That’s what he means.

I nod, bottom lip quivering slightly, unable to stop it, breathing out, “Y-yeah, of course.”

He nods in return, beginning to pivot like he’s going to go upstairs and start packing, and no- no I can’t do this-

I reach out, I don’t even remember deciding to, my hand wrapping loosely around his forearm,

“Wait, please- just- okay,” I say, taking a shallow breath in, “it’s fair, for you to ask for space, it’s okay,” I lie again, just trying with every fiber of my being to not fall apart, to not let us fall apart, “can you just please-” my voice breaks off, “please..explain what’s going on, to me, just a little?”

I feel like I’m in full fight-or-flight. A single tear rolls down my cheek and I instinctively brush it away, paying it no mind, trying to stay focused.

“Belly-”

“I’m..I’m just really confuse-d,” I say, my voice cracking, the words a sort of plea.

I'm still fighting hard not to break down, but it feels like someone is clawing at my throat, and my bottom lip is shaking uncontrollably now. I feel my face begin to crumple, and it's like I can't stop it, a few more tears spilling over and down my cheeks. I try at first to catch them before they reach my jaw, but it quickly becomes a futile effort. It's honestly a miracle I'm even still standing.

And all I can think is that when I feel like this I just want him to hold me.

But he doesn't do that. He doesn’t reach out, he doesn’t comfort me at all- not even verbally. He just looks at me. He looks at me almost like...like I’m embarrassing myself; I can feel my cheeks burning.

“Please…” I ask again. Please don’t shut me out..

I’m scanning his face, searching for anything to hold on to, but he only looks…resolute. Like he’s already decided he’s going to do this, and that all my reaction has done is make it more difficult. Like there isn’t anything I can do or say that's going to change his mind. That's going to make him stay.

I feel my lips part again, but it's as if someone muted me; I’m speaking, but there’s no sound. I feel like I’m dying. I reach out for him again and my hand hits the edge of something hard, a pain shooting up the back of it-

It's dark, and my eyes are searching the pitch black in front of me, my breathing near hyperventilation. I can feel sweat on the back of my neck; I'm on my side. I pull my hand back and shoot upright, wrapping the other around it. I turn, feeling fabric bunching at my hips. I look down at my body, squinting; Cousins Rowing? I blink a few times, willing my eyes to adjust. I squeeze them together, hard, pupils finally dilating to let enough light in to sharpen the lines of him, Conrad, of his nightstand behind him, of our closet on the wall behind that, of our bed posts. I'm shaking; adrenaline leeching from my body. My hand is throbbing; I had punched my nightstand. Idiot.

I was asleep. It was a nightmare. I was asleep.

I suck in a deep breath, staring at the foot of our bed, trying to calm down. I feel this intense wave of nausea hit me, all at once, like my jolting awake had started to rapidly dissipate the melatonin (Conrad would later tell me it’s acetylcholine) in my system and it was trying to escape my body. I slide my legs off the side of our bed, out from under the duvet, and walk briskly toward the crack of nightlight under our bathroom door.

Conrad must have felt me, felt me moving around or the dip of the mattress, because he knew instantly that I was up. I was taking deep ragged breaths as he walked up to the open doorway, not turning on the light.

“Belly?” he asks, running a hand back through his bedhead, his voice thick with sleep.

It sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

And God what’s that fucking smell…

My eyes look up into the mirror in front of where I'm standing over the sink, locating the source in it’s reflection; my gold wire basket of bath bombs. There's this one I really really like (actually, one Conrad really really likes; every time I use one he, like, obsessively kisses over my shoulders and down my arms when I get out of the tub, so it's my favorite). It's from Lush, and it's shaped like a crescent moon; it has grapefruit oil in it. Fuck, the ones I bought last weekend must be bad or something, old maybe, because my nose is, like, flooding with the smell of rotting citrus. Like that time I forgot to throw away some Cuties, and they got all green-brown and squishy, and Conrad put them in one of those soft green biodegradable produce bags and was walking it out to compost-

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, snapping me back to the present, and I just shake my head. I can’t even look at him.

I close my eyes, still trying to calm down, hand still throbbing as it grips the edge of the vanity. Then I feel a touch, his fingertips, tenderly reaching out to comfortingly brush a few hairs from my shoulder and I reflexively recoil.

“Don’t- just…”

“Tell me what’s wrong..” he says softly, his voice still a bit gravely; patient as always.

Asshole. Bastard.

I feel another lump rise in my throat, only this one is real. My eyes burn. I would typically have been able to swallow it all; to breathe, to collect myself.

It wasn't real, it was a bad dream. A nightmare. And it was over. I knew that. I know that.

But my bottom lip is starting to quiver now, and the lump is growing larger; painful to swallow against. And then suddenly, inexplicably, I was crying. A single tear beading down each cheek. I look up, and I can see Conrad reflected next to me. His face is so soft, and caring..

You are so lucky I’m too tired to beat you to death with this curling iron.

“I- will kill you if you ever leave me.” I say, voice quavering, a few more tears spilling over and dripping down onto the top of my(his) socks and bare legs.

I can see his eyes widen a bit, standing up a little straighter,

“O-..kay-”

“I mean it. I will hunt you down…like that movie..” I reiterate incoherently.

He totally thinks I’m a basket case. He’s wondering why he even decided to write to me in the first place. He hitched his wagon to that crazy girl who sprints through train stations and pushes him and threatens his life and now he’s probably thinking about how he could have just moved on with some cute nurse.

Kill Bill, that’s what it’s called.

And look I know I sound like an idiot, okay? Cut me some slack. It’s like two-thirty in the morning, and my brain is fried, and my boyfriend just broke up with me.

“I promise, I’m not going anywhere,” he offers softly, and I turn to him,

“Yeah well you did,” I say, eyes flooding again, “in my dream, I guess…obviously..” and then I choke up, because I feel so fucking stupid and because it actually physically hurts, like in my chest, even just thinking about it. “It felt r-really real, okay?” I croak out, quietly gasping in a shallow breath, and I can see his face fall.

“Belly-”

“I know, I know,” I say, nodding, swallowing. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay.” I exhale slowly, the words more of a prayer than a promise.

“I’m sorry..” he says, with complete sincerity, because of course he would. Of course he would apologize for my subconscious.

Damn him.

And at that I'm crying again, and I’m turning toward him, blubbering out nonsense illuminated only by our sailboat Wallflower nightlight.

“You hate your dad!” I blurt through tears, “-and I’d have known,” I say, pausing to breathe through my mouth as my nose congests, “‘cause I get the emails, ‘cause you know how you gave them my email…so now I get the emails about the points we get,”

And he’s just nodding, and listening, and definitely wondering if it’s too late to break next year's lease. And now I’m realizing that it’s Tuesday, and he's probably dead on his feet, and he needs to be up in like…God like two and a half hours. And so now I’m crying even harder, saying,

“And now I woke you up, because I’m an idiot,” I follow with a wet laugh, “and you’re going to be so tired, and you’ll have to tell your resident that the reason why your patient died was because you didn’t get any sleep because your girlfriend woke you up because you left her and flew to Boston and she didn’t even get the email about your Southwest Rapid Rewards,” and my face is a teary, snotty mess as I add, “and so basically I killed someone.”, capping it off with one hiccup for good measure.

And God help Conrad but he’s smiling; he looks like he’s trying so hard not to. But there’s a full on smile on his lips as he steps toward me, and I’m honestly still a little angry at him, but I press my cheek to his chest as he wraps his arms around me and sets his chin on the top of my head. And so now I’m a little less angry, and that god-awful smell is replaced by his warm worn cologne and fresh linen because I- no wait, he just did laundry.

A final few tears are rolling down over my cheekbones creating tiny splotches on his t-shirt, and I can feel him tilt his chin down to press a kiss to my hairline. I close my eyes; I can still feel the smile on his lips as they brush over my flushed skin. “I love you so much.” he murmurs, causing my bottom to lip jut out. I give a short sniffle, getting lost in the soothing strokes of his hands over my hair, listening to his heartbeat. After about a minute like that he says, “Let’s go back to bed.” and I nod, wiping at my cheek, feeling him press one more kiss to my forehead.

Once we’re back in bed, and I’m tucked up into The Nook™(in his arms, on his chest, his lips pressed to the top of my head), he allows me a few minutes of secure silence, lets me settle, and then says,

“I want you to know…that I am never going leave you.”, and I slow my breathing a bit to listen, “I know it was just a bad dream, but it’s really important to me, that you know…I love you, and I’m not going anywhere.” he says again, voice firm and strong. I nod, feeling the tips of his fingers brush over a few strands of my hair, tucking them behind my ear.

"I know." I breathe into his chest.

I feel him smile against the crown of my head, lips never leaving me. “Y’know,”, he starts again after a moment, “one day I want to buy you a house…” he says, his voice reminiscent of how he’d tell me bedtime stories when we were little, “get married..” he goes on, “start a family..” he finishes quietly.

He'd told me all of this before, of course. But the words never fail to land somewhere deep, maybe where fourteen-year-old me still lives. They make me feel giddy, even now, half-asleep, eyes heavy from crying.

“So I’m not going anywhere," he continues, "unless it’s with you.”

I go wherever you go.

And I know he can feel a couple more tears dripping onto his shirt again now because thanks babe I’m crying again.

“Get some sleep, okay?” he whispers, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the skin of my arm with his thumb.

I swallow thickly, lips still trembling as I nod again, and the last thing I hear before my eyes finally close and my body gives in to exhaustion is him whispering again that he loves me, and that he’ll wake me before he leaves for work.

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The next few days after nightmaregate (what I’m calling it) are business as usual; stress eating, ripping my hair out studying, taking exams, rinse-repeat.

Speaking of hair and rinsing-repeating, I have been losing mine like crazy. Like I’m wondering if I should be concerned. I’m leaving field-mouse-sized hairballs on the windowsill in the shower every other wash. I really am considering that multivitamin Conrad was talking about, or at least biotin gummies.

Back to my wonderful boyfriend; extra doting, despite his own heavy workload. And extra patient with me and my recurring emotional breakdowns. Which yes, are still very much happening despite having now taken all but one final, and are pretty much punctuating my life. I researched lobotomies the other day, it’s getting that dire. Like I asked Conrad if it was possible for too much information intake at once to damage your brain- he, very kindly, explained to me that it’s not. I personally don’t even know if I believe him. I mean sure he is a doctor, “not a doctor yet” he’d say, but he basically is…but I think I’m living proof that it is possible. I see your science and expensive education and raise you the anecdotal evidence of the last, now like, twenty-plus days of my life.

Like okay, take yesterday for example; I found out that the Hot Cocoa Oreo’s I bought during a Target run a few days before Christmas were apparently limited edition. Sounds like a minor bummer of a situation, right?

Wrong.

I wanted those stupid hydrogenated oil sandwiches so fucking badly I thought I might lose my mind if I couldn’t get my hands on them. It was life or death. I had Conrad up again at like eleven at night Googling those markets that specialize in off-season snacks; I figured the Bay Area of all places was eclectic enough that one of those had to exist near us.

Wrong again.

This led to me assuring Conrad that it was totally fine, I’ll just have a couple of those 365 brand “Gluten Free Chocolate Sandwich Cremes” that he bought. That I was just gonna go back downstairs, grab a few and some milk, turn off the light in the living room, plug in my laptop and come to bed. He found me half an hour later in our pantry in tears.

So that’s how we wound up at Safeway at twelve-thirty in the morning on a Saturday buying everything to make them ourselves, and by ourselves I mean himself, because Conrad was the one who made them. And for the record, his were better. He said it’s because they were made with love; I rolled my eyes when he said it but I’ve been smiling thinking about it ever since.

His were bigger (typical), and the cookie parts were less flat- but he did take a toothpick and make a little design on the top. He also tried writing my name in the oval he drew in the middle, the one that would normally say ‘Oreo’, all of which I had sleepily told him was unnecessary to which he insisted that it was absolutely necessary- but then he realized all five letters wouldn’t fit so he opted for 'B.S.C.’, and then when he was wasn’t looking I changed a couple to ‘B.S.F.’.

Anyway, I’ve almost eaten them all.

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“Siri, answer.”

“Hiii!” I hear squealed from across the room.

“Hiii,” I say back, “one sec!”

I’m elbow deep in a box from the top shelf of our closet, trying to find a notebook of mine I haven’t seen since I moved. I had spoken to my mom earlier; I guess my dad is desperately craving mille-feuille, and I know I have a great recipe for it that I got from a regular at the bar. I just can't seem to-

I hear a loud tumbling, two thuds, and a fluttering of papers from behind me.

“B?!” I hear Taylor call from across the room.

“Fuck- ugh…damn it,” I grumble to myself, “hold on..” I sigh loudly as I get up, turning to see two other boxes have come off the shelf and fallen to the floor, papers cascading down in the air in their wake.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m-” I huff, picking one of them up off the floor, setting it on our bed, “I’m trying to find this recipe for my mom…and I can’t,”

“What was that sound?”

“Well we have all these boxes up in the closet, and most of them are unlabeled, because they’re full of my stuff,” that’s weird why is my throat getting tight, “and Conrad asked me if he could organize them for me, like he said he didn’t mind- but of course I said no it was fine,” my eyes start to sting, and I swallow, giving up on my search entirely as I continue, “and so now I can’t find my notebook, and there are papers all over the floor- his papers, that were organized, and it was my stupid idea to even put all these boxes up there in the first place,” my voice cracks.

“Babe?” I hear her say, concern lacing her tone. I'm still standing next to his side of the bed, closing my eyes and groaning because ughhh why the fuck am I crying again, trudging over to my phone sitting on our dresser next to the door.

“Yeah, I’m sorry I’m fine- I’m here…what’s up?” I say, running the sleeves of my(Conrad’s) sweater over my pink cheeks trying to get it together.

“I don’t know, what’s up? What’s wrong?” she asks, and I shake my head.

“I’m just…stressed,” I say, my throat still a little tight.

“School?” she asks, and I nod.

“Yeah, school- I’m so fucking tired, like all the time, Taylor.”

“God B..”

I just shrug, looking down at the screen, momentarily distracted by the way my lashes look a little clumpy now, running a finger tip over them softly fanning them out.

“Are…you and Conrad good?” she asks tentatively.

“We’re great,” I say honestly, looking at her again now, “it’s literally just school, finals- and when I woke up this morning I had the worst headache, and I like can’t focus on anything..I’ll…I’ll be fine, I just need to be done for a while.”

“No, yeah totally.” she says, and then I hear an alarm beep and a door close. “Shit- can I call you back in a second B? Steven just got home.”

“Yeah, yeah of course- call me later.” I nod, honestly grateful to get off the phone, hearing a hurried “I will, love you!” as the call ends.

I set my phone back down and walk over to disaster I’ve inadvertently created, crouching, sliding my hands over the mess of papers (old assignments, medical journals, tax documents, etc.) trying to line them up so I can slide them into their sheet protectors and file them back into their respective boxes. As I drop from balancing with my butt resting on my heels down to my knees, just that short distance, the room seemingly tilts. I reach to my left to steady myself on the footboard of our bed, and then it’s like the whole room is spinning. I brace with both hands on it, closing my eyes and- oh fuck, bad idea.

It’s like I’m in a fucking teacup at Disneyland watching Steven put his entire back into wrenching that little white wheel around and around as hard as he can. I manage to get myself to my feet, and walk with my hands flat to the duvet around to the end of the bed, wobbling as fast as I can into our bathroom, bouncing against the inside of the door frame as I do, grabbing ahold of the vanity’s edge as I walk toward the toilet. And then I’m dropping to my knees again, whipping it open and completely ridding myself of the contents of this morning’s menu. Thank God Conrad is out for a run right now.

After I’ve sufficiently wretched and sniveled, I stand, flushing and cleaning myself up. I try to think about everything I’d eaten that morning.

I burnt us some toast…bread..moldy? Butter, apricot preserves..but Conrad had them too. And then I had a Pop-Tart, while Conrad was making the bed. And then a couple dry handfuls of Cap’n Crunch, and then the other Pop-Tart. And then a few bites of Conrad’s cold leftover chicken fettuccine alfredo from dinner the other night.

Ultimately I decide it’s dehydration, that’s the only thing that makes sense, that’s obviously why I was dizzy- and I did notice I was, like, extra thirsty lately. Conrad is always on me to drink more water.

So now I’m brushing my teeth, wiping some smudged mascara from under my eyes, trying not to allow myself to fall into a hypochondria spiral when I hear my phone ring again. Not FaceTime, a phone call. Mom's ringtone.

I breeze through a rinse and dab a hand towel over my lips as I race back over to the dresser.

“Hey mom,”

“Hey bean, you find it?” she asks, and I exhale, tossing the towel into our laundry basket (in whites when it’s navy blue and a linen; Conrad will surely move it later).

“No not yet.” I say, disheartened, walking back over to quickly finish my clean up (another thing he’ll have to fix later).

“That’s okay, I actually wasn’t calling for that- I needed to run some dates by you. I know we talked about you and Con coming back here to visit…but dad and I are thinking we might come there instead, maybe around your birthday,” and I nod, making my way out of our room and downstairs.

“Conrad would love that,” I smile.

“We just figured, everyone is out there, we should come to you all. We can see Steven- and it would give me a chance to finally see the Botanical Garden.”

I gasp excitedly, a bit of life being infused back into my tired body, “Ooh yes- okay hang on,” I say as I set her down and sit in Conrad's desk chair, swiveling a little as I move his laptop over to see the desk pad calendar (which is something he insisted on buying, that I argued we really didn’t need when we have our phones, and now I pretty much rely on).

“Ummmm okay,” I say as I untuck the two bottom corners of March to flip forward, listening as she rattles off a few options (week before, week of, week after), considering some logistics (work; flights and hotels). We think we’ve come up with a pretty good plan, even verbally mapped out an itinerary for her while she’s here, trying to figure out the best place for them to stay that accommodates all the destinations she had in mind. By the end of it I’m bubbling with excitement, and Conrad is just walking through the door.

“Babe!” I chirp, and he gives me a lightly winded smile, wrapping the chords of his headphones around his very..very big hand…wow he does get really sweaty when he runs all the way to the playing fields huh…

Focus.

My mom’s voice comes though the speaker, yelling out a “Hi Connie!”

“Hey Laur,”

“Guess what?” I cut in, beaming at him over the desk.

“What?” he asks, his smile growing as he walks over to the fridge to grab a water bottle.

“My mom and dad are thinking of coming here for my birthday,” I say, and his eyebrows shoot up, smile still on his lips.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“If that’s alright,” my mom stupidly says, to which Conrad instantly shoots back a sincere “Laur you know we always want to see you.”

“Alright,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, “Shit-” I hear her mutter suddenly, and both Conrad and I pause to look at my phone, “Bean I’m gonna let you go,” she continues, “just saw the time- I have dinner with my publisher at seven and I’m not even showered,” she sighs.

I look up at the clock; it's already two?

“Oh sure, I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here,” she says, “love you both.”

“Love you Laur,” Conrad says from across the room, and I’m eyeing him now, biting my lip. He catches me and gets a little smile on his own.

“Love you mom, byeee”

“Byeee,” she echos playfully and I’m on my feet before the line goes dead.

“Hi.” he says as I walk up to him leaning against the counter top, his voice a little thicker like it always is after a run.

“Mmm hi,” I hum, running my hands over the lightly damp polyester and elastane of his half zip (one of the Nike Dri-FITs I got him for Christmas).

He lets out this little chuckle and cranes down, and I smile, my eyes flitting to his lips.

“Good run?” I ask in a near whisper and he nods, my lips parting for his as he takes my top one between them.

He tastes minty and salty, and his lips are so warm it makes my stomach flip.

When he pulls back he gives me another few quick kisses on my cheeks, not standing back up just yet, his lips finding the spot on my neck just below my jaw, and he hums low. I immediately feel goosebumps rise all over, my stomach coiling. He lets out this gruff kind of groan after a moment with his nose buried there, and I shiver.

“God you smell good..” he breathes against my skin, and I feel it travel right down between my legs, letting out a surprised little squeak, feeling his lips travel a little further down,

“Can you..” he says, pausing to sponge a slow kiss to the crook of my neck, “take a break..” he kisses up below my earlobe, lips grazing it as he asks finally, “for a shower?”

Well I probably have to now, or at least change my panties.

I fucking love Sundays.

“Go get the water warm..”

And I can feel him smirk against my skin. I giggle again as he peppers a few more kisses to the side of my neck, taking a deep breath in like he’s going inhale me or something, and then heads toward the stairs. I’m literally thinking about his dick, like how excited I am to have it inside me soon, as I hurriedly walk back over to the desk to grab my phone. I’m blushing and smiling, and he hasn’t even fucked me yet. As I pick it up, ready to go upstairs and get my cheek smushed against the tiles under the window, I pause very briefly to tuck back in the pages of the calendar (if I don’t I know it will bother him).

I flip the four sheets back over, tucking the bottom corners carefully back into their little triangular pockets one by one. I’m on the third one thinking,

I can’t believe it’s seriously April next week.

I smile, seeing the little flower I drew on the fourteenth. I lay that sheet down, tuck it in, smooth it flat. And then lastly March; tuck it in, smoothing it flat when-

It’s seriously April next week..

…it’s April next week.

April is next week.

My hand stills.

Wait…

Okay…wait-

A calculator forms in my mind.

Thirty days have September…

Wait-

No, because…

Okay no I remember, because it was the first of the month…the first of-

I look back down, reading the bold typeface: MARCH

The first of February.

And suddenly my vision is tunneling, and I’m white knuckling the desk’s edge having to will myself not to pass out. I have to force myself to breathe.

What did Conrad say…in for four…hold for sev-

Conrad.

I shoot up out of his chair, gripping furniture as I walk to the bottom of our short staircase, somehow able to make it up, walking into our room where I can see steam already pouring from the crack in the door.

“Belly?” I hear him call, and I’ve kind of stopped wondering how he inexplicably always knows when I’m near.

“Co-” I try, my voice high pitched, clearing my throat, “Conrad?”

“Yeah?” he calls back. I walk closer, speaking through the crack.

“Hey, yeah I’m- I’m here…I actually…I just, um…started my period- just now..”

God I fucking wish.

There’s a silence, a longer one than I expected, and then he says,

“Oh..okay, yeah of course, can I-”

I cut him off suddenly, grabbing my purse from where it’s hanging off the bed post at the foot of our bed, shouting back toward the door.

“No! Nope- I’m okay,” I walk closer, “I’m actually gonna- run to CVS, I think, really fast- I’m out of…tampons and stuff.”

“And stuff”?

“Sure- do you want to give me like three minutes? I can go with you-”

“No, no I can just go!”

“I really don’t like you walking there by yourself,” he says.

“No I know- but I promise I’ll be fine, it’s the middle of the day- and it’s only like..ten minutes- I’m gonna just go okay? Love you.”

“Love you too- be careful!” he calls after me.

“I will!” I yell back, nearly running out of our door and down the stairs. I race back over to his desk, grab my phone and then his house keys off the counter, slipping on whatever shoes I have in the rack by the door. Cool, so I’m going to CVS in his Christmas sweater, my grey sweats and fucking flip flops.

My hand is shaking as I lock the door, clutching my phone as I type,

SOS 911 EMERGENCY LIFE OR DEATH CALL ME RIGHT NOW

And within thirty seconds Taylor’s contact photo is popping up on my phone.

“Hey babe are yo-”

“Where are you?” I interject.

“Home wh-”

“Where’s Steven? Am I on speaker?”

“Downstairs, and no, what’s-”

“I’m pregnant.”

And then there’s a three-house-long silence, and I think I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. There’s a rustling of fabric, a door closing, and then I hear a whispered “What?!” yelled back at me.

“Yep. I’m pregnant, I’m fucking pregnant.” I say flippantly as I pass a woman walking her dog who stares at me like I’m crazy…it could be the Christmas sweater in March.

Another silence and then,

“Oh my god.”

“Yep.”

“When did you find out?”

“Like,” my voice is shaking from adrenaline, “um like five minutes ago.”

“Where are you? Where’s Conrad?”

“I’m,” I pause, smacking the hell out of a crosswalk button that never did anything to me, “walking to CVS.”

“To get another test? Sometimes it’s, like, a false positive.”

“To get a test.”

“Wait- so you’re just- so you like think you’re pregnant, but you haven’t taken a test yet?” she asks, her tone almost hopeful.

“Oh no, no I don’t think, I know.” I say as the hearing-impaired beep sounds and I power-walk over the dashed white lines.

“But you haven’t taken a test yet, so there’s-”

“Taylor I’m three weeks late.”

And then there’s what could probably be described as a pregnant pause, if I had a sense of humor at the moment.

“So..” she starts again, like she wants to say something but isn’t sure what, because really what can she.

“So yeah, you’re going to be an aunt, and Steven is going to be an uncle, and Conrad is going to be a single father because my mom is actually going to kill me.”

“Okay but you’re taking this…like..okay?”

“The only thing keeping me from passing out right now is talking to you, and knowing that Conrad is going to be out of the shower in like eight minutes,” I say, panting now as I walk through the automatic double doors, “and I’m trying to get back before he’s dressed and downstairs.”

I stand there, determined and focused and totally not sweating bullets, looking up at the rectangular hanging boards over each aisle.

“Do you think they’re in 'Women’s Health' or-” I cut myself off when I see ‘FAMILY PLANNING’ hanging over aisle nine and begin walking that way.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

“So wait…” I can tell she’s doing her own math, and curious, lowering her voice as she asks, “when do you think you..”

“Valentines Day.” I say as I round the corner into the aisle.

“Awwwww,” she says genuinely, then asking, “wait so…so you guys like don’t use…?”

“I mean we do, but not…not like every single time..”

“B..”

“What brand should I get there’s like…there’s like twenty..”

“How would I know?!” she whisper yells back at me again, and I sigh.

“I’m just gonna…get the most expensive one, I guess…”

“You want me to Google it?”

“No it’s fine.” I say as I grab a thirty-dollar two-pack of First Response “Digital Gold” whatever the fuck that means. I walk up to the front in silence, setting my phone down on the belt, call still ongoing, and pull out two twenties as the teenage boy behind the register looks at the box and then me like he’s thinking about sex. I begin walking back as soon as he hands me my change, bag in hand, resuming my conversation with Taylor after almost a block by saying,

“How am I going to finish school?”

Silence.

“And Conrad just got that job at the hospital, I mean he’s still-”

“B you know I’m here for you right? Like, always.” she says, and I know she’s trying to keep me from spiraling.

“I know, I know.” I breathe out, our house coming into view again.

“Do you want me to come over?” I hear her ask, and I shake my head even though she can’t see it.

“No…no it’s okay.” I say, approaching the walkway up to our front door. I’m breathing deeply,

In for four…hold for seven…

There’s another silence on her end, and I’m barely containing a nervous breakdown, and then I hear,

“…okay but like you did say you almost called Conrad daddy in bed the other day though so like-”

“Hanging up on you now bye.”, and I do.

I’m shaking again when I approach the door, looking down to make sure the thin plastic bag isn’t see-through. I wonder briefly if I should wrap it up and put it in my sweatpants pocket, but then I think about how Conrad knew I was going and it would look weirder if I came back with no bag and a weirdly bulky pocket so I just take a final calming deep breath (which does fuck all) and unlock the door.

“Hey,” I hear as soon as I step inside, seeing Conrad coming down the stairs still pulling his t-shirt down.

“Hey,” I say, hoping he can’t hear how fucking terrified I am right now, and he walks over to give me a quick peck. I tighten my grip on the bag, holding it closed in my fist.

“You want me to make you something to eat? I put a bottle of ibuprofen on your nightstand, but you-”

“Shouldn’t take it on an empty stomach.” I finish, and he smiles. Doctor boyfriends, am I right?

I just shake my head, looking up at him, “No that’s okay..” I say, “I’m gonna just go upstairs and lay down for a bit- and I promise I won’t take any until I’ve had, like, at least a banana or something.” and he smiles again. I stretch up on my tip toes, giving him two quick pecks on the lips, and then I go; ascending the stairs for the final time before I’m, like, confirmed a mom.

Do not pass out. Do not pass out. Do not pass out.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ◯ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆

So when they say three to five minutes they should add a disclaimer that it’s going to feel like twenty.

I waited for Conrad for like six-plus years, and then another four, and I can say with confidence this felt longer than that. Maybe it was because I didn't actually set an alarm, because I was too nervous he’d hear it (which is honestly really dumb because it’s not like he’d even know what it was for, but I didn’t want to take any chances), and so I just sat with my phone in my lap on the edge of the bathtub, watching the seconds hand tick all the way around five times on the clock app.

Also I'm pretty sure I now have an infinity symbol permanently indented into the pad of my thumb and the side of my index finger from how tightly I've been holding my necklace. And Conrad just had it cleaned for me for...ha, Valentines Day.

Sorry, I still haven’t looked yet. Can you tell I’m procrastinating?

Okay…fuck…okay…

I stand, smoothing down my sweats, taking a deep breath,

“Maybe you’re not, maybe you’re not,” I reassure myself aloud, “maybe you were so stressed you just skipped it- stress can fuck cycles up…”

I still haven’t stepped toward the sink.

“Maybe you had one and just forgot.” I now lie, closing my eyes. I bounce up an down on the balls of my feet willing them to move…and then they do, and I’m taking two steps forward, eyes still closed. I exhale, and stand there for a couple more seconds willing myself to open them…and then I do, looking down at the test sitting on the vanity’s edge.

Oh my god.

Is my first thought, and my second thought is,

I wonder if it'll be a boy or a girl.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ◯ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆

I cap the test, and put it back in it’s box, hiding the unused one in an old makeup bag. I should have grabbed a Ziploc or something…

I stand there in front of the mirror for a second, looking at myself. I don’t look like a mom. I don’t even look old enough to rent a car. I tried when I first got home, and the guy looked at Conrad like he needed his permission before letting me.

I lift his sweater slowly, looking at my still flat stomach. I turn, putting my hand over it. I take a deep breath, leaning back, imagining a smooth round belly where there isn’t one yet. Then imagining for a second all of the cute maternity clothes, and getting momentarily very excited. I run my hand down, cupping below my belly-button as I picture for a second what it’s going to be like when I can’t see my toes, or how it’ll feel waddling around Trader Joes and Golden Gate Park. I stand there trying, and almost succeeding, at getting this to feel real. I finally let his sweater drop back down, and I press my cheek into the shoulder of it where it smells so much like him.

“Please be happy..”

Fifteen minutes later I’ve built up enough courage to descend the stairs- actually, I’m really just too excited to tell him; I can’t wait anymore. Like I’m nervous, but he’s still my best friend; every time anything happens I want to tell him. I call him sometimes just to tell him when I see a really cute dog. So, like, imagine how badly I want to tell him this.

I see him sitting on his side of the sofa, Chronicle in hand, crossword being scribbled in. He’s gonna be doing that and I’m gonna be holding our baby sitting on the other side under a blanket while we watch a movie- wait…babies?…ooh what if it’s twins…

“Hi,” he smiles as he catches me in his peripheral, “you hungry yet?”

I smile and shake my head, because he literally can’t help himself, and walk over to him slowly.

“No…well- I mean yes, but no..”

And he laughs out a little “Okay.”

He looks up at me as I get closer; I have one hand held behind my back. About halfway there I see a little flicker in his eyes, like maybe he can tell my smile is knowing, or like he just now realized my arm is bent behind me like that because I’m hiding something. I stop in front of him, standing close enough to reach out with my other hand and take his fingers from his knee to play with for a second (it calms me).

“What?” he asks, a smirk playing at his lips, his fingers dancing over my palm.

I can feel my nerves bubble up again but I push them down, saying,

“I…need to talk to you..”, and his head tips a little to the side in question. He slowly sets the newspaper and pencil down on our coffee table, and I smile a little wider. He mirrors my smile back up at me, and I let go of his fingers and put that hand behind my back now too.

“Can you close your eyes?”

He raises his eyebrows, intrigued. His smile grows impossibly even wider and he does as asked, shaking his head in that way he does when he thinks I’m being adorable.

“Put your hands out..” I say, and again, he does.

I bite my lip, bringing the box out from behind my back, hovering it over them for a hesitant second before placing it down into his open palms. I see him grasp it, considering what it might be, and I say, whisper almost inaudibly, “Kay..open..”

And he does.

His eyes land on his hands, and it takes him about four seconds to figure out what it is he’s looking at. I’m watching his face, watching as he turns the box around so it’s upright, watching his gaze shoot up at me in realization. I put one hand over my mouth as he parts his lips and then, as surely as I’m standing here, he says,

“I fucking knew it.”

And my mouth just drops open, hand falling, smile still tugging at the corner of my lips as I scoff out the loudest and squeakiest “What?!”

He’s looking up at me, absolutely beaming, misty eyed.

“Belly..”

“Wait wait- what do you mean you knew?!” I ask, pushing his shoulder playfully and he laughs, shaking his head.

“I had…I had a feeling…” he says, as if he’s trying to say, please don’t make me call the mother of my child crazy.

“Oh a feeling huh?” I chide.

And I can see his eyes, despite the smile, start to fully well with tears. Immediately I feel mine do the same, and he says,

“I hoped.”

God I feel so fucking lucky.

“Really?” I ask softly, and I see him press his lips together, twisting them a little as he looks up at me and nods, eyes full to the brim.

“You can’t cry,” I say, choking up, “cause if you cry then I’ll cry..”

And he lets out a little wet chuckle, sniffing, nodding again. I see him ruminating for a second, and then he lifts the hand not holding the test box. He gently pops his fingertips up under the hem of my(his) sweater, and very slowly pushes it up. I look down, feeling as his wide warm palm stretches out over the soft skin just above the rolled waistband of my sweats, and I reach down to further lift it, holding it up for him and murmuring,

“I think they’re like…the size of a lima bean..”

And for some reason that’s what gets a tear to fall for him, comparing our baby to a legume. He bats it away from his cheekbone and looks up at me, and then asks,

“Can I tell you something?” his hand never leaving my stomach. I nod with a little smile and he says,

“When I was in the shower, and you told me you started your period…I was so disappointed..” and he lets out another wet laugh, wiping again under his eye. And that’s when my bottom lip begins to tremble, laughing too as a tear of my own escapes.

“You were?”

“Very.” he says honestly.

Funny to think about how nervous I was in that moment telling that lie..

He stands then, keeping his hand on my stomach (I’m realizing there’s a good chance he’s never going to remove it), and kisses me. He’s holding the back of my head against the box still in his other hand, and keeps it there as he rests his forehead on mine. The tip of his nose brushes tenderly back and forth over the bridge of my own, and he says,

“We’re having a baby.”

And I nod excitedly, cheeks wet and pink,

“We’re having a baby.”