Staying in Vegas by Sam Mariano

 

1

Laurel

Four: the number of nights I spent with Rafe Morelli.

Three: the number of love bites he left on my pale flesh.

Two: the number of months since I last saw him.

One: the number of lines I want to see on the screen of this home pregnancy test.

My stomach twists and turns. There are no butterflies fluttering around, but a swarm of angry hornets, demanding to know how I, Laurel Price, mayor of Play-it-Safe-Ville could even be having a pregnancy scare, let alone one created by a man like Rafe Morelli.

It doesn’t matter. This is just nerves. It has to be, because there is no way Rafe got me pregnant. We used a condom every single time, and if one had broken, he would have told me, right?

My nerves are making me super late. The stress of finals, probably. Now that school is out for the summer, my period will come back from its extended vacation and save me from the stomachache-inducing fear that I’ve ruined my life for less than a week of great sex.

The timer on my phone went off a minute ago. I’m just stalling now. I need to stop or I won’t even trust the result.

Summoning the same courage I had no lack of two months ago, I grasp the little white stick off the edge of the sink and brace myself to look at the result. Over Easter break, it was the sight of Rafe Morelli holding a small baby against his bare, muscled chest that undid me—the elaborate house with the elegant, crazy family; it all seemed more a fantasy than any kind of reality. Like Alice visiting Wonderland, I took my seat at the Mad Tea-Party. I wanted to drink the tea, taste the food, and let the super hot man give me orgasms. Okay, maybe that last one was just me, not Alice. When in Rome, right?

I was already enamored of Rafe Morelli on sight, the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen sweeping into the room and coming to sit by me for dinner. He turned his attention on me, and to be honest, I’m not used to that. I’m certainly no ugly duckling, but with a sister that looks like mine, I’ve never been considered the pretty one. If a man who looked like Rafe wanted to pursue one of us, he would go after Carly, not me.

Only this time, it was me. Rafe’s attention was mine, and it didn’t matter if it only lasted for a few days—they were lovely days.

Each night when I go to sleep alone in my bed, I think about him. I remember the feeling of his sensual lips moving across my skin, the jolts of pleasure that shot through me—things I’d never felt before. Rafe knew exactly what he was doing, and I realized that somehow, the guys I’d been with before didn’t.

Rafe Morelli gave me fodder for fantasies. He gave me lovely memories. He gave me a new standard to hold any new man I went out with up against.

I’ve only been out with one guy since, and to say he failed to stack up would be an understatement. When he kissed me at the end of the date, the only feeling that stirred within me was disappointment.

Right now there’s a stirring within me, but it isn’t excitement or disappointment—it’s dread. This feather light stick is going to change my life—or at least scare me out of ever having sex again. We used condoms! This isn’t supposed to happen if you use condoms.

From now on, it’s two forms of protection or bust. Condoms and the pill or the shot or the patch—I don’t know what, but something. Condoms clearly are not sufficient.

Or maybe they are. Maybe this is a result of the stress. I won’t have an answer until I grow some balls and look at the damn window.

It’s going to be negative. I know it will. It has to be. We used condoms.

Repeating that truth over and over in my mind, I take a deep breath and look at the little window.

Two lines.

No, that can’t be right.

We used condoms. Two lines are for people who don’t use condoms. People who behave irresponsibly and make a mistake. I didn’t make a mistake. I didn’t behave irresponsibly. I did everything right…

And yet, there are two lines.

Two lines means...

Two lines mean my life is over.

I sit there for a moment, my mind unable to process this information. This can’t be the right result. Maybe it’s wrong because it’s not first thing in the morning.

No, that makes no sense whatsoever. The point of testing first thing in the morning is so more of the hormone is present in the sample. That would explain a false negative, not a false positive.

Could be a faulty test, I suppose. That seems more like wishful thinking than a realistic possibility though. I didn’t realize my period skipped a whole month. That doesn’t happen to me. That isn’t normal. I’m not on any form of birth control because there’s no reason to be; I’m not sexually active on a regular basis, and I don’t need it to control periods.

This is the first time in my life I’ve ever longed for my period. Period, oh period, I’m so sorry for not appreciating your reassuring presence in my life.

Finally, I rise. I’m still not fully able to process, but sitting here on a closed toilet, staring at this godless stick isn’t going to help anything. I shove it inside the box, crush the box in on itself, and push it to the bottom of the garbage can, beneath the balled up plastic bag I put there a few minutes ago.

I’m not quite twenty-years-old and I am pregnant.

I don’t own a car, don’t have a job, and get through life right now on the goodwill of my sister and her brand new husband.

And I am pregnant.

This… this is not ideal.

I think I have $43 in my bank account right now. People with $43 in their bank account—and who used condoms—should not turn up pregnant.

I’m going to write a strongly worded letter to the good people at Trojan. Her pleasure, my ass.

My head lolls back and I sigh, hard. This sucks. This sucks, hard.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

Since I’m not sure and I don’t especially care to think about it, I head downstairs. It’s summer break, so I had no reason to stay in Chicago. My sister Carly and her new husband just bought a brand new house in Connecticut. They haven’t even been together for a year, so it was a little impulsive, but we all got swept up in the craziness. Vince hails from a family of lunatics. Over Easter, we all visited the asylum—I met and bedded the handsomest golden god on the planet; my brother-in-law tangled with the magical siren he first fell in love with; and my beloved sister faced off against Vince’s brilliant, supervillain arch nemesis cousin.

It was awesome.

But then we had to climb out of their rabbit hole. We fell on solid ground in a heap, dirt beneath our broken finger nails, grass stains on our clothes from landing so hard. Vince and Carly decided to forever join forces, having an impromptu wedding in Vegas so they would never have to face anything alone again. I went back to school, rising and going about my daily routine like I hadn’t just experienced Bedlam. There was no reason for anything to change. It was just an experience we all shared, and we lived to tell the tale. Someday when Carly and Vince have babies, I plan to fictionalize all of it and tell wild stories about them.

Vince and Carly’s babies should be the only ones in my immediate future. Babies aren’t even something I’ve thought about yet, if I’m being honest. In a distant, years-off way, I figured I would have kids, but I always figured Carly would get there first—especially since of the two of us, she’s the married one, and I’m the one who hasn’t had a steady boyfriend in over a year.

I make it to the kitchen and see the aforementioned sister bent over and rummaging through a box. Her blonde hair is piled in a perfect messy bun on top of her head, her midriff is visible beneath the intricately tied T-shirt she’s rocking, and she’s wearing cut-off jean shorts. Her tan, toned legs go on for days beneath them, and as Vince stands at the back door watching with a smirk on his face, he certainly notices.

“Stop staring at my sister’s ass, perv,” I joke.

Vince’s dark eyebrows rise and he regards me. “Hey, I’m allowed.” He holds up his left hand to display the wedding band on his finger.

“Hell yeah, he is,” Carly says, smiling faintly. “He liked it so he put a ring on it. That’s a man who knows what he’s doing.” Just to be cute, now she wiggles her ass for him.

“You want me to cook, or what?” Vince asks.

“I do,” she says. “I’m starving. I can’t find my mixing bowls, though. Laurel, I need you.”

Vince nods at me as I walk into the kitchen. “Hamburger, hot dog, or both?”

“I hate food,” I mutter.

Carly pops out of her box to scowl at me. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

“I’ll take a cheeseburger,” I tell Vince.

He nods and goes to the fridge, grabbing a few cheese slices before heading out the back door again.

Carly sighs, closing up the box and lifting it, then setting it aside so she can dig into the next one. “This is ridiculous. We really need to finish unpacking.”

“I told you to make sure all the boxes were clearly marked,” I remind her, approaching the box nearest me and pulling out a fuzzy sweater. “This shouldn’t even be in the kitchen. This should be upstairs.”

“All the kitchen ones are labeled ‘kitchen,’” she assures me.

“Why do we need a bowl for burgers?” I ask her.

She abandons the next box in record time and reaches into the bottom box on the stack. “I wanted to throw together some macaroni salad to go with the cook-out food. I already made the noodles and they’re stuck here in food purgatory, waiting for their introduction to mayonnaise and pickle juice.”

“Colonel Mustard wanted to drop in, too, if I recall correctly.”

“Yep. All the ingredients are present and waiting to party, but I can’t find a bowl to mix it all up in. I’m this close to using a clean pot instead.”

“If it means we don’t have to spend the next hour digging through boxes, I vote for that option.” Just as I finish that sentence, Carly pops up, holding a blue bowl into the air.

“I am victorious!”

“The queen of organization,” I proclaim. “We all kneel before you.”

“Peasants,” she mutters, walking over to the counter and unscrewing the lid on the mayonnaise jar. I walk over to join her, watching as she mixes all the ingredients together.

Carly is actually only 23, so she’s certainly not old enough to be my mother, but she’s the person who raised me. Technically, we lived with my grandparents, but they had already raised a batch of kids. It was a place to live, a pair of adults to buy back-to-school clothes and groceries, but when it came down to the actual parenting, it was always my big sister.

When I was 12, she taught me to cook.

When I was 13, she taught me about the birds and the bees.

When I was 14, she nursed me through the first time my tender heart was broken.

When I was 15, she took over the raising of me, financial burdens and all.

When I was 16, she taught me how to drive (and accessorize).

When I was 17, she helped me apply to college and fill out financial aid forms and applications, helped me make sure I was taking the classes I needed to so I could begin my college career strong and chase after my goals.

When I was 18, she paid for me to go to school, supported me financially and emotionally, helped me study for exams—all while working and being a full-time student herself.

My sister is a superhero. My sister is my biggest supporter.

And now I have to tell her I fucked it all up.

I think. I’m not actually sure if I have to tell her or not, but one way or another, I have to tell someone. I have $43 in my bank account, after all.

Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones, maybe it’s my sentimental reminiscing, but I take a step forward and wrap my arms around Carly, giving her a sideways hug.

Laughing lightly, she asks, “What’s that for?”

“I just love you,” I tell her.

“I just love you, too,” she says, smiling and winking at me.

“I want you to be proud of me. I want all the sacrifices you’ve made for me to be worth it.”

At this, her smile falters. Her expression dims and she regards me with skepticism. “What sacrifices are we talking about? I already am proud of you, Laurel. Where is this coming from?”

“I know you weren’t happy that I slept with Rafe.”

“Oh.” She rolls her eyes, waving her hand dismissively. “Honey, that’s water under the bridge. It’s over, it’s done. It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t judging you, I was just worried. Getting entangled with any of the Morelli men is a mistake, and I wanted to save you from making it.”

I raise an eyebrow at her declaration. “You married one of them.”

She rolls her eyes. “I realize that, but I pulled him out first. Rafe is the anti-Vince. There’s no pulling that one out, and if you can’t pull them out, they pull you in. They ruin your life. Ask Vince, he’ll tell you.” She shakes her head, stirring the macaroni mixture. “I know they’re sexy beasts, but they’re soul stealers, every last one of them.”

I understand she meant that rhetorically and I don’t really want to, but perhaps I should talk to Vince. I already have a pretty good idea of what Carly will tell me if I appeal to her for advice about my predicament, but maybe I should listen to the male perspective. Lacking a father, brother, or any other paternal family figures, my brother-in-law is the closest thing I have.

Besides, he’s Rafe’s cousin. Surely if anyone would have some insight, he would.