The Truth

Billy laughs as Ricky turns away, crossing his arms and huffing in exasperation. “Are you done yet? We’re going for burgers. You know, real food? I could bring you one back if you want?”

The thought of a greasy burger, even if it is wrapped in crunchy, fresh lettuce, turns my stomach, and now I’m the one crinkling my nose. “Blech. No way, thank you. You know those are like, horrible for your arteries, right?”

Ricky, who obviously knows more about health and diet than I do, turns back and looks at me seriously. “What’s happening with you, Tiff?”

I shift in my chair, feeling very uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Uh, nothing. Just working.” I gesture at the stack of paperwork and the split screens on my monitor. “If I’m being bitchy, I’m just really busy.”

Ricky looks at Billy, and they have an eyeball conversation I presume to be about me as if I’m not sitting right here. Finally, Billy looks at me. “You playing dumb or actually dumb?”

“What the fuck, Billy?” I ask, immediately offended. “I am neither, as you are very well aware. What the hell is going on with you guys?”

“She turned down a good burger,” Billy tells Ricky, resuming talking about me rather than to me. “So actually dumb. I’m surprised.”

“You owe me fifty bucks, dude,” Ricky says, and Billy nods.

I’m still just as confused as when this conversation started. Maybe more so, and getting pissed off by the second because of it. “You two have three seconds, and I mean three seconds, to tell me what the hell is going on and why you’re betting on my intelligence before I use the paper cutter to turn you both into ‘takers’ and not ‘givers’ in the bedroom for the rest of your lives.”

Schhnick.

I mime the guillotine action of the cutter, adding my own sound effect, which should be threatening as hell.

Ricky laughs, wholly unconcerned. “If it’s Miranda doing the giving, I won’t mind.”

“Ugh, dude, I don’t need to know that,” Billy complains. A split second later, though, he lifts a brow and whispers out of the side of his mouth, “You really tried that? Pegging is . . . I don’t know, man.” A shiver works its way through his body.

“Later,” Ricky tells Billy, unconcerned as he reaches in his back pocket, pulling something long and thin out. I sit back, alarmed.

“Are you pulling a knife on me?” I spit out, pushing back from my desk to add space between us even though his arms would probably reach the wall behind me easily. He’s like a condor that way—heavy and big, but with freakishly long wings. I mean, arms.

Is armspan a thing? I wonder. And why is my first reaction that Ricky, of all people, would pull a knife on me? What is going on in my head?

Ricky shakes the thing in his hand in front of my face, getting me out of my thoughts. “No, dumbass. I’m giving you this.”

He hands me a small white stick with a blue cap. I turn it over in my hands, wondering for a moment if he’s handed me a vape pen or something, but I’m totally flummoxed. “I don’t get it, Ricky.”

“Dumbass,” Billy repeats, this time singing it. “It’s a siiiign.”

Ricky places a hand on my shoulder, seeming concerned. “Tiffany, don’t freak out, but you need to take that to the ladies’ room and use it. Right now.”

I look down and realize what he’s given me. There’s a little window on one side, and next to it, a plus and a minus . . . “This is a pregnancy test.” I snort. “I don’t need to take a pregnancy test.” I throw the stick to the desk and scoot away from it, curling into myself like it’s a snake that might bite me.

Ricky looks at me with pity. “Tiff, you’re eating weird and acting weird . . . even for you.”

Suddenly, my stomach rolls. I grab a cracker, shoving the whole thing in my mouth at once. Around the cracker bits, I say, “Why would I need a pregnancy test? There’s no way I’m—”

I freeze, the words lost in the half-chewed cracker that suddenly tastes like sawdust. “Oh, fuck!” I say, spraying crumbs everywhere.

“That’s how it usually happens,” Billy jokes. “Now you’re catching up.”

He waves his hand, encouraging me to hurry up and grasp what they’re saying, but Ricky holds up a calming hand in his direction. “Give her a minute, dude. She’s obviously blindsided, and I mean, it is tight timing.”

“Whatever,” Billy says, sighing. “We all know it takes just one time. They taught us that shit all the way back in middle school or something.” Actually involving me in the conversation finally, he says, “You really should track these things better.”

With advice like that, I wish he’d go back to ignoring me. Especially because my internal freak-out meter is redlined and shaking.