Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You-Chapter 47: Sickness

Sarah

I wake up with my stomach in knots, a sour taste coating my mouth.

Something’s off.

I look to my side and see that it’s empty. Matthew must’ve gotten up before me and left the room.

The nausea surges again, a hot wave rising from my gut to my throat. I kick off the sheets and stumble toward the bathroom.

I barely make it to the toilet before everything comes up. I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet, so it’s mostly bile and last night’s dinner. My knees dig into the bathroom mat, fingers gripping the toilet seat so hard they turn white.

I groan. My eyes water and my nose runs. I feel disgusting.

When the retching finally stops, I sit back on my heels. That’s when it hits me.

I might be pregnant.

I try to count back the days since my last period, but my mind feels fuzzy, uncooperative. It’s been... what? Five weeks? Six? I’ve never been good at tracking, always a little irregular anyway. But definitely late. Definitely not normal.

"Oh god," I mutter, flushing the toilet and dragging myself to the sink. My reflection looks like a stranger—pale lips, dark circles under my eyes, hair stuck to my forehead. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away both the sick feeling and the growing certainty in my gut.

It could be a stomach bug. Could be food poisoning. Could be stress.

But I know. Somehow, I just know.

I force myself to get dressed, pulling on leggings and an oversized sweater.

When I go to the kitchen, I find Marishka laying out the breakfast.

The sight of food makes me feel sick again.

"Oh honey, you’re really pale. You coming down with something?" Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s switching into medical assessment mode, the way she does whenever I show the slightest sign of illness.

I shrug, aiming for casual. "Maybe a bug or something. I’ll be fine."

"There’s a nasty stomach virus going around." She reaches out like she’s going to feel my forehead, but I slide away, pretending to reach for the sugar.

"I’m good, really. Probably just tired." I fiddle with my mug, not drinking, just holding it for the warmth. "Big project at work."

Marishka doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push it.

The word keeps flashing in my mind.

Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

I think about the test I’ll need to buy, the minutes I’ll have to wait for results, what those results might show. I think about Matthew, about us, about this broken relationship we’ve been clinging to.

Maybe, a small voice whispers in my head, maybe this changes everything. Maybe this is what we need to either fully commit or finally let go.

I rinse my mug and set it in the dish rack, movements slow and deliberate while my thoughts race ahead to what comes next.

One step at a time, I tell myself. First, confirm. Then decide. Then tell.

~-~

The pharmacy’s automatic doors slide open with a whoosh that sounds too loud in my ears. I pull my jacket tighter around me, even though it’s not cold inside.

My reflection in the security mirror looks guilty, like I’m about to shoplift instead of making a perfectly legal purchase. I take a deep breath and force my feet to move toward the family planning aisle, telling myself that everyone buys these things, that the cashier won’t even remember my face five minutes after I leave.

It took me three hours to work up the courage to leave the house. I paced from room to room, talking myself into and out of this trip at least a dozen times. I could just wait—see if my period shows up late. I could ignore the morning sickness, blame it on stress or bad takeout. I could pretend everything is normal for another day, another week.

But the not knowing is its own kind of torture.

The store is mercifully quiet for a weekday afternoon. Just a few elderly customers studying vitamin bottles and a harried-looking mom trying to quiet a fussy toddler. I keep my head down, walking past displays of seasonal allergy medicine and foot care products, my destination clear but my steps hesitant.

When I reach the right aisle, I’m hit with a wall of options I hadn’t considered.

There are at least eight different brands.

"Can I help you find anything?" A chipper voice from behind nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

I turn to see a store employee, maybe nineteen or twenty, wearing a blue vest and a nameplate that reads "Amber."

"No, I’m—I’m fine. Just looking." My voice comes out higher than normal.

She nods, eyes flicking to the shelf I’m standing in front of, then back to my face. There’s no judgment in her expression, just the bland politeness of retail, but I feel exposed nevertheless.

"Let me know if you need anything," she says, already moving away.

I grab the first box that promises "99% accuracy" and "results in 3 minutes," not wanting to spend another second deliberating.

The box feels impossibly light in my hand, like it’s filled with nothing but air instead of something that could change the entire trajectory of my life.

"Fourteen seventy-two," the cashier says, and I fumble with my wallet, dropping a five-dollar bill that floats under the counter.

"Sorry, sorry," I mutter, crouching to retrieve it, cheeks burning. My fingers close around the bill, and when I stand up, I feel dizzy again. For one horrible moment, I think I might pass out right there in the checkout line.

Get it together, Sarah.

But the moment passes. I hand over my money, take my change, and shove everything into my purse without waiting for a bag.

The drive home feels like an eternity.

When I finally make it back home, I run straight to the bathroom.

I lock the door even though I’m alone. I pull the box from my purse. The instructions are printed in tiny text that seems to blur as I try to focus on them.

"Unwrap the test stick... Remove the cap... Place the absorbent tip in your urine stream for 5 seconds... Replace the cap... Lay the test flat... Wait 3 minutes..."

My hands shake as I follow each step, the mechanics of the process both mundane and surreal. The plastic stick feels clinical and impersonal. After I’ve done what I need to do, I set the test on a folded piece of toilet paper on the counter and set the timer on my phone for three minutes.

Then I sit on the edge of the bathtub and wait.