Love Song

Discovery

    Cal leaves long before Justin is due to get home. The multiple orgasms he gave me leaves me tired and spent. I lay in bed for a while flipping through my social media apps, posting a sexy pose of my naked body twisted in my bed sheets, my hair fanned dramatically around my head. I slip on some silk pajama shorts and top before heading downstairs to grab a late night snack. My stomach grumbles loudly as I glance around the full fridge. I settle for the jar of pickles hiding in the back of the top shelf. Settling into my usual spot at the counter, I unscrew the lid. 

    As I eat each pickle, my stomach seems to calm down. I get a text from Justin. The signing went well, and he is getting ready to drive home. I have a couple hours yet before he actually gets here. I walk over to the pantry and grab a plastic jar of peanut butter and a spoon from the drawer. I start spooning the gooey, sticky stuff onto my tongue, enjoying the way it tastes. I know I’ll regret this tomorrow when Ivan comes over to help me with my workout, but right now, I don’t want to stop. I end up finishing off the rest of the peanut butter before heading back upstairs to take a shower.

    When I get to the bathroom, I feel a sudden urge to throw up. I run over to the toilet, flipping up the lid just in time. The last thirty minutes of snacking comes back up. I rinse my mouth off in the sink and wipe my clammy face on a towel. Holding my stomach gently, I walk over and climb into bed. I close my eyes and think about why I would be getting so sick all of a sudden. I rarely ever throw up like that out of nowhere. In fact, it almost never happens since I grew up.

    I touch my belly and glance down at it. It looks almost as flat as always, though it does seem to be poking    up a bit more than usually considering I’m lying down. I squint as I try to count the days since my last period as my heart starts to race. I check my calendar, scrolling backwards through all my tour dates. No period. I go back another month. There it is in big, bold letters. Over two months ago. I sit up, wincing as my stomach protests the sudden movement.

    Sliding my legs off the bed, I head back into the bathroom. I dig through the drawers and cupboards until I find what I’m looking for. A box of two pregnancy tests. I used one a while back when I thought I might be pregnant, but there is still one left. I pull it out of the wrapper and follow the directions on the box carefully. My hands start to shake as I wait for the results to appear in the little window. It will either say “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant”. One or the other. Part of me already suspects what it will say. 

    I’m glad Justin isn’t home yet. This is something private, personal. It requires space and quiet. I bit my lower lip and push away from the counter to stop staring at that little window. I decide to come back and check on it in a couple minutes. I start flipping through the internet looking for abortion clinics. I had two already, back before I got to be more careful about my birth control. I didn’t understand how this could even be a possibility, but then I remember there was a couple days while on tour that I had run out of my birth control. I was in Tokyo and I had to have one of my assistants get some for me. I wonder now if that is to blame for my current predicament. 

    I lock my phone then. Do I even want another abortion? I’m turning thirty this year, and this would be abortion number three. I touch my stomach and a small smile forms on my mouth. No, I don’t want another one, I decide. Maybe it is time to slow down and try my hand at motherhood. But do I really have to slow down? There’s plenty of singers that are parents that still tour the world and release killer albums. I know I can do it too. As one of the wealthiest singers out there right now, there’s no reason to think I won’t stay on top.

    I walk slowly back to the bathroom. A couple feet away, I can already see the letters clear enough. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. There it is, clear as day: “Pregnant.”

    I lean against the counter to keep myself from falling over. The nausea I had been feeling the last several weeks of my tour make sense now. I had attributed it to over exertion and exhaustion from the rigorous schedule I was keeping. Before I can think of what to do next, another thought comes in my mind out of nowhere. If I really am pregnant, who is the father? Is it Justin? Or Cal? I would have no way of knowing. I sleep with both of them on a regular basis without using condoms, so it could be either of them. 

    I sink to the floor and put my head between my knees, another wave of nausea hitting me. What are people going to say when they find out? What will happen to my reputation if it’s not Justin’s? This is unimaginable. My phone chimes out, making me look up. It’s Cal checking up on me. 

    You still awake? His text reads. 

    I drop my phone on the floor without responding. I have no idea what to say. Justin is going to be home soon. I don’t want to be here when he does. He’ll know something’s up. He’ll ask questions, and I’ll end up telling him. I have to clear my head before then, figure out what I’m going to say and how I’m going to say it. 

    I make a quick decision and text my best female friend, Lila. She can be an uptight, stuck up b***h a lot of the time, but when it really counts, she’s the most supportive friend I could ask for. Her internet wealth and fame comes second hand from her father, one of the first YouTube stars on the scene. She gets what it’s like to live in the spotlight with unlimited access to money. I jog back over to my closet and change into street clothes, throwing a black hoodie over my torso, leaving the hood up. 

    I send a quick text to my driver to have him pull the car around front. He’s waiting for me by the time I slip out the front door, my purse swinging from my shoulder, sneakers gripping the gravel driveway easily. As I step inside the black SUV, I catch a glimpse of cameras flashing outside my front gate a short ways away. Paparazzi standing out there snapping photos of me, wondering where I’m heading off to. Some of them would likely try to follow me. My driver will lose them easily enough. He’s had plenty of practice. As we swerve around the empty streets of my neighborhood, Lila texts me back that she’s home and available for me to visit. I relax against the soft leather back seat as the lights of Hollywood fly past me out the windows.