Practice Makes Pregnant. Lois Faye Dyer
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He swore and picked her up, crossing to the bed. Within seconds he’d stripped both of them, donned protection and covered her. She welcomed the heavy, hot press of his weight, nearly mindless as he drove her higher with his hands and mouth.
He lifted above her, going motionless, his dark hair tousled, the lines of his face fiercely possessive. “Are you safe?”
Allison could barely understand his words, his voice thick and roughened. What had he said? Was she safe? The answer was yes; she felt safe with a male for the first time in her life. She nodded, unable to speak, and then she forgot all about safety for he surged inside her and sent them both over the edge.
Allison frowned and flipped the page on her desk calendar again.
This can’t be right.
But there was no getting around the fact that the last time she’d scribbled red asterisks on her calendar to mark the beginning and end of her monthly period was over six weeks ago.
Did I forget?
No, she knew she hadn’t forgotten. She never forgot to jot down the dates of her period. She’d been jotting those little red marks on her calendars since the summer she turned thirteen.
She quickly scanned the notations on the days between the last little red mark and today’s date. Halfway in between, she was stopped short by a date, circled in red but without an accompanying note; it was the Saturday night she’d gone to the party with Zoe and Jack—and left with Jorge Perez.
Heat moved through her veins and flushed her face and she squeezed her eyes closed at the flood of memories. They’d spent hours together after leaving the party. I shouldn’t have slept with him. But sleeping had nothing to do with what the two of them had done in his bed.
Allison dropped her face into her hands and groaned.
I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking?
She hadn’t been thinking, she admitted to herself. That was the problem. She hadn’t been able to think rationally from the moment she’d looked across the ballroom and found him watching her. And when he took her in his arms, their powerful sexual attraction drove everything but him from her mind.
It wasn’t until she’d wakened in the gray pre-dawn that she asked herself what came next—and then she’d panicked, slipped from his bed and fled the hotel room. She hadn’t seen him since; but then, she hadn’t expected to. He didn’t know where she lived or worked and in a city as large as New York, it was unlikely that he would find her, even if he bothered to search, which she doubted he would.
She flipped the calendar page to the current month, absentmindedly jotting “six weeks” on the square for today’s date.
I hope I don’t start my period this weekend, she thought idly. She had too much homework to finish and she couldn’t afford to spend a day in bed with cramps.
She stared at the red letters she’d just written on the white square. Six weeks? Of course, she thought, frowning. It had been six weeks. Something about the time frame niggled at the edge of her consciousness. But I’m never late.
Her hand froze, the tip of the fountain pen bleeding a small spreading blob of red ink on to the pristine white paper of the calendar. Allison stared at the red blot without seeing it, horror widening her eyes and shortening her breath.
Six weeks—my period is two weeks overdue. Could I be pregnant?
A swift image of Jorge Perez’s compelling face and the muscled strength of his body pressing hers into rumpled sheets had her groaning with dawning apprehension and shock.
Pregnancy was more than a possibility, she realized. She wasn’t on the pill, nor had she used a diaphragm or any other form of contraception. That night with Jorge was the first time in her life she’d been carried away by passion, and she’d been completely unprepared.
She knew that condoms had a risk factor. She couldn’t even blame Jorge if she’d conceived that night, because he’d used protection. She was the one who’d been irresponsible and failed to add backup birth control.
She dropped the pen on the calendar and sat back, pushing trembling fingers through the thick fall of her hair.
What am I going to do if I’m pregnant?
Her hand pressed against her belly in an instinctive, protective gesture.
Her one night of incredible passion with Jorge might have consequences that would alter her life forever. Not to mention her body.
She tilted her chin down and stared assessingly at her torso. She couldn’t discern any changes—her abdomen was as flat as usual.
But if she were pregnant, the shape of her body wouldn’t stay the same for long. She’d seen lots of pregnant women come and go through the doors of Manhattan Multiples, a care center for mothers expecting more than a single baby, and she had no illusions about what would happen to her now-slender body if she were carrying Jorge’s baby.
Jorge. She blanched. Did she have to tell him?
Of course I have to tell him. How can I not?
On the other hand, how could she? Would he be happy? Angry? Would he want visitation rights, or God forbid, custody?
Allison pressed a hand to her chest, felt the heavy thud of her racing heart, and took several deep breaths in an effort to calm herself.
She had to be practical, she thought, forcing herself to think logically, when she really wanted to run screaming from the building. Before she considered all the many questions, she had to find out if she was really pregnant. On her lunch hour she would go to the pharmacy and buy a pregnancy kit.
She glanced at her watch. Two hours until lunch.
Resolutely she shifted her calendar to the corner of her desk and pulled a file toward her, flipping it open. She forced herself to focus, bringing up the appropriate data file on her computer and moving doggedly through the necessary action.
She canceled a lunch date with a co-worker and went to the pharmacy instead, returning with the kit concealed in a plain brown bag tucked into her purse. The afternoon hours dragged by, the hour hand on her watch moving slowly toward 5:00 p.m.
The hum of activity in the office grew louder with end-of-the-day preparations, drawers opening and slamming shut, files being dropped into the return-to-shelf basket.
“Don’t work too late, Allison.”
Allison lifted her head to find her boss, Eloise Vale, standing in her office doorway, her purse slung over one shoulder and a leather briefcase in her hand.
“I won’t.”
“Good. You spend too many late nights in the office,” Eloise chided, her smile affectionate.
“Not tonight. I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Eloise glanced at her watch. “Oh, drat. I’m going to be late. Bye.”
Allison called a good-night as Eloise whisked off down the hall. She forced herself to wait until all sounds had ceased, until the last slam of desk drawers being closed and cheery good-nights were followed by the closing of the outer door. Then she made herself wait another ten minutes in case one of her office mates had forgotten something and might return to their desks.
At last, reassured by the absence of human activity in the silent outer office, she picked up her purse and left her office for the community bathroom.
The room was silent. Allison pushed open the doors to the three empty stalls to verify that she was alone before dropping her purse on to the marble-topped vanity. A crystal vase with a bouquet of spicy, white carnations, lush pink roses and delicate white baby’s breath brightened one corner of the gray marble countertop that held two sinks with porcelain fittings. Recessed lamps cast a soft light in front of the long mirror that took up the entire wall above the vanity.
Allison