Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

My head pounds, even after the Tylenol, and I dig around in my bag to see if I have some extras. Instead, my hand clenches around my birth control.

“What’s wrong?” Myrtle asks, her hand on the door. “You just went white.”

I jiggle the pill pack, showing it to her, seeing her eyes widen. Licking my lips, I say, “I took my last active pill last Sunday, which means I should have started my period three days later, which was Wednesday. I don’t take the inactive ones usually . . . so . . .” My brain freezes, then unfreezes, as I count . . . “I’m five days late.”

“Oh my,” she says in an oddly serene voice. “Is that normal? I don’t know anything about birth control these days.”

“No, it’s not normal. I’m always on time . . .” My voice trails off as I set down the pills and yank my phone off the console and search for articles about my prescription, my fingers tapping.

“Are you pregnant?”

I shoot her a look. “I never missed a dose.”

“You’ve been having sex every day, a thousand times a day, right?”

My body clenches at those memories. I keep reading.

“His sperm is so mighty it defeated your pills.”

My stomach swirls. I hold my phone up. “It says here that stress and changes in diet and exercise can cause me to miss my period. That qualifies. That’s me. I’m under stress. I didn’t run for days, then picked it back up with a vengeance. I haven’t eaten a full meal since Sunday, and that was fried chicken and corn bread.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“It’s grief nausea.”

We look at each other.

“You gonna go with that, huh? Just trust an article?”

Butterflies flip-flop in my stomach. “Let’s go in,” I say, dropping the topic as I grab Aunt Clara’s Chick-fil-A and get out of the car. My head swims, tendrils of something I can’t name pricking at me. What if . . .

We walk into the shop, and just as I thought, it’s empty except for Mama and Aunt Clara and Elena.

“Bless your heart; you look awful!” Mama yells and gives me a hug, then holds my cheeks in her palms. “Poor baby.” She searches my face like a hawk. “You need to eat. That’ll make it better.” Her shoulders slump. “That Devon, he broke your sweet heart, and now you’re leaving me for Switzerland!”

I lean into her, tears roaring back. Seems to be a new normal. “I’m going to miss you so, so much.” My head lies on her shoulder, and I breathe her in, peppermint and sweetness.

She pats my back. “There, there, it’ll be okay. We’ve already planned a girls’ trip to see you on Thanksgiving. We’ll stay in a fancy hotel and eat out.”

My eyes press shut. I want turkey and dressing at Mama’s, her fall decorations and fancy plates and napkins with little squirrels eating acorns. I want Aunt Clara sneaking rolls during the passive-aggressive prayer. I want Elena and Jack kissing when they think no one is looking.

“Thank you for my lunch,” Aunt Clara says, taking the bag but not opening it, just pouting at me, then huffing and giving me a hug. “I’m going to miss your face.”

“Sorry it took me so long to come. Just needed some time to regroup.” I haven’t regrouped worth a shit.

Elena hugs me next. “Whiskey at my house after this, and we’ll talk, okay?”

“She can’t drink anymore,” Myrtle says brightly, fluffing her hair in one of the mirrors. “Damn, I look good. I don’t think I need a touch-up after all.” She pauses as we all turn to look at her. “What? She might be pregnant.”

Chaos ensues. Mama screeches, and Aunt Clara falls into a chair. Elena covers her mouth. I’m trying to explain that I’m not, amid the overlapping voices, but no one hears me.

“A virgin . . . ,” comes from Mama as she stares at me with wide eyes. “Someone grab my smelling salts . . .”

“You don’t use smelling salts,” Elena says, then “Oh my God, you’re gonna have the first grandchild. You little hussy . . .”

“Nausea and late . . . ,” Myrtle says.

“Hope it’s a girl with Devon’s eyes . . . ,” Aunt Clara says as she munches on a waffle fry.

“Stop,” I shout, my hands fluttering. I glare at Myrtle. “I am not pregnant. Look what you did.”

She shrugs, the shoulders of her muumuu shifting. “Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t, but doesn’t it make you think?”

“About what?” I say.

“The future,” she says, her kind eyes on me.

“You’re pregnant?” Topher gasps, and I realize he must have come in halfway through the mayhem. “Can she call me Uncle Tophie? Please?”

“Y’all need Jesus,” I drawl, my voice a testament to my southern roots. “There’s no pregnancy.”

“Don’t bring the Lord into this.” Mama grabs her purse and heads to the door. “I’m going to the Piggly Wiggly and buying a test. Everybody just wait here. Elena, get that whiskey. I might need a nip.”