Kay wouldn’t buy a pregnancy test herself, so it was up to me to return to Boots the Chemists the next day to acquire one. It was surprisingly expensive for such an insubstantial-looking box. I supposed it must be because they didn’t sell that many. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you would buy every day. As I walked to the check-out till, I steeled myself to look the shop assistant in the eye, as if this was just a routine domestic purchase. I tried to imagine that the packet was something quite ordinary, like a small box of teabags. The shop assistant just looked at me with a blank, bored expression. But I couldn’t maintain eye contact and looked down at the counter, where my eyes inadvertently came to rest on the display of condoms. So many different types. And I hadn’t managed to use even one of them.
On the way back, I thought about what the result of the test might be. I decided that it was important not to put all my faith in the possibility that there was some other explanation for Kay having missed her period. So I assumed the worst. This was in the irrational hope that by making this assumption, the worst would be less likely to prove true – and in the knowledge that if it did prove true, then at least it would cushion the blow.
It took a while to persuade Kay to use the test. I had assumed that she would look at things the way I did. That meant that proof was required, hard evidence to demonstrate beyond doubt that she was indeed pregnant. In my eyes, the possibility that she might be pregnant – without actually knowing one way or the other – was somehow worse than the certainty that she actually was. But she didn’t seem to see things in quite the same way. Eventually, she agreed and disappeared off to the toilet with a plastic cup. I sat in her room, reading the instructions. If the chemical indicator at the end of the plastic tab changed colour, that meant you were pregnant. There was also something about the potential for error and advice that you should go and see a doctor for confirmation. But I was prepared to be convinced by the results of the test, whatever its indications were.
Kay came back into the room and shut the door.
“Look,” she said, holding out the plastic tab. “I can’t believe it.”
The indicator had changed colour.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. “I can’t believe it.” I put my arms around her. The result seemed to be more of a shock to Kay than it had been to me. I felt as if our roles had been reversed. She had seemed so calm about it before. Now it was as if she had never really been convinced of her pregnancy in the first place. I had assumed that she would have adopted the same approach as I had and counted on the worst. After all, from the way she had talked to me the previous night, she seemed to believe she was pregnant. I had thought that this was why she had been so opposed to taking the test – because she regarded it as somehow superfluous, a confirmation of the obvious. But perhaps it was because, if the test was positive, then it would extinguish all hope that there might be another explanation for her missing period. Now I was the one who appeared more prepared for the confirmation provided by the test. Unlike my failure to wear a condom, the test result seemed to have a dull inevitability about it. It was what I had steeled myself to expect because I hadn’t wanted to build up false hopes only for them to be shattered. But I had no answer to Kay’s question. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
That night we slept together in Kay’s room. She made another startling announcement, for which I (again) felt completely unprepared. She told me that, despite everything, she thought she was falling in love with me. She said she’d never told anyone that before. This caught me off guard. If she had said this to me the week before, I would probably have replied without hesitating. I would have said that I had fallen in love with her and that I had never felt like this about anyone before either. All of which would have been true. I would have meant every word of it. But her pregnancy had made everything more complicated. I didn’t feel able to think about the relationship over the longer term – all I could think about was her pregnancy and what we were going to do about it. Now her declaration seemed to carry with it all sorts of unforeseen complications. Was it that she really wanted to have the baby and that she was looking for some sign of commitment from me? I reproached myself for thinking this of her, but I couldn’t dismiss the thought from my mind. And now the clock was ticking against me – the more I hesitated, the more it looked as if I felt unable to reciprocate.
I remembered once saying “I love you too” to a girl I had known whilst still at school. But I hadn’t been in love with her at all. I just hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. I thought it sounded false at the time and hated myself for saying it. Now part of me wanted to say it as if I meant it – but my head was so full of doubts that I didn’t know if it would come out right. And then I decided that I had probably waited too long anyway. Whatever I said now, it would sound lame. The best option was simply to kiss her and remain silent, as if this would somehow express how I felt. We drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
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