“Uh, do you have a bathroom?” I ask.
The cashier gestures to the back of the store. “Back thataway.”
“Thanks. Oh, and—” I point through the window to Rob. “If that man comes in here… please don’t tell him what I bought.”
I don’t give him any other explanation before I rush towards the dingy little bathroom and shut the door.
I try not to think as I go through the motions. I just focus on the action steps. Open the package, sit on the toilet, position it between my legs.
This is perfectly normal, I say again and again.
But as I sit the test down on the rusting sink, goosebumps brush over my skin.
I clean up and wash my hands slowly. I try not to look at the test as I count aloud.
It’s the longest three minutes of my life.
But just as I say, “One hundred and eighty,” I look down and
