What Ifs and Other Troubles

by Denisa Dobrovodová

An opening to a novel

Lisa

Did it break? Maybe it broke. It must have broken. Or maybe there was just a tiny little hole that-

The condoms were cheap. Free, actually.

Did he even put it on? Surely, he did. No, yes, he did. I remember him doing it. Even the second time. He did. Definitely.

But maybe he just pretended to? But why would he do that?

Surely, he wouldn't.

It couldn't have broken. These things are sturdy... Right?

I'm probably ovulating. Whenever we have sex, I turn out to be ovulating.

Makes sense, I guess.

But then the pill won't work. Or would it still?

Maybe I should check. And I'll ask. They'll know what to do.

But if... I don't remember exactly.

He was putting on the condom, there's a wrapper here to prove it.

And another one. And the used ones are probably in the bathroom.

I shouldn't look, though. I can't.

I can't be the girl who goes through her fucking bin.

No. It's okay. I'm probably not ovulating anyway.

Or even if I'm, it's most likely fine.

How effective are condoms? Fuck, only 87%? Jesus. Okay.

Well, it might be too late anyway. Maybe,

I can't believe I did this again. I mean, how many times?

How many fucking times?

The line in the pharmacy was long and painfully slow, consisting mostly of the elderly getting their prescriptions refilled. Lisa Roberts was standing at the end of it, right by the display of vitamins and supplements. Occasionally, she glared at the shelf and read a couple of names, even thought for a second, about trying the collagen drink or the hair/nail/skin supplements, but decided it was a waste of time and money. And besides, she wasn’t old enough to take collagen. Maybe in a few years, if her lifestyle remained as fucked as it was today.

It broke. It must have broken. What if I throw up? Then I'll have to come back. Maybe it’s too late anyway. It probably is too late. With my luck.

‘Next.’

How will I tell my parents? Actually, how will I tell him? Will he even care? Maybe it will prove that he loves me. Maybe, he will step up and…

‘Miss, it’s your turn.’ Lisa raised her gaze and found herself leaning against the counter with her mind far away from the front of the line.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

‘How can I help you today?’

The pharmacist, an old lady with owl-like glasses and grandmother’s kindness, appeared sweet. Understanding. Comforting.

Maybe I don’t actually need it. Maybe I am fucking myself over yet again. She said I shouldn’t take it if I don't definitely need it. The hormones could be really bad for me.

‘Ehm, I— I would like the morning-after pill, please,’ said Lisa, her voice low, her gaze avoiding the pharmacist’s eyes.

‘Of course, dear. We will give you a little privacy for that. Follow me.’

A few seconds later, Lisa was alone again. Seated on a stiff, plastic chair in the backroom of the pharmacy, her knees were shaking, her hands trembling, her glance nervously dancing around the shelves on the wall. Vaccines, gauze, equipment for drawing blood. She hated having her blood drawn. Her parents used to have to hold her down when she was little, and also not so little, and whisper words of comfort to quiet her panicked mind.

~

‘Hello there.’

Lisa jumped a little, for she hadn’t heard the door open and was caught off guard. Turning around, her eyes rested on a different pharmacist, a younger one, prettier, and visibly stricter, one, whom she had, unfortunately, encountered before.

No. Not this one. Please, not this one. Where’s the grandma lady when you need her?

‘I am Therese,’ she said, looking Lisa up and down with a heavy familiarity that made the atmosphere grow thicker, ‘We meet again, I see.’

‘Seems so,’ Lisa responded, quietly and apologetically, engulfed with the “morning after” shame.

‘Remind me. Name?’ Therese asked, sitting down behind the computer.

‘Lisa Roberts. I mean, Eliza. Eliza Roberts.’

‘Age?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘GP?’

‘Ehm… Grayfriars’?’ She always had trouble remembering.

‘Are you asking or telling me?’ The pharmacist raised her brow.

‘Telling you.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Student.’

‘Reason for visit?’

‘I…,’ Lisa cleared her throat, coated with the remnants of the previous night, ‘I need the morning-after pill.’

Therese frowned, looking first at the screen and then back at Lisa’s exhausted face. It was clear why she was there. It must have been.

‘Didn’t you take one last month? I remember you coming in.’ She made no effort to hide the judgment in her tone.

‘I did, but I thought — I thought I could take one after a month. Can I not?’

Fuck. Maybe I really shouldn’t be here. Maybe I don't even need it. I should leave now. But what if —

‘Oh, you can. But have you considered a more permanent form of contraception?’ She stepped away from the computer and moved her chair closer to Lisa’s.

‘I— I don’t know,’ flustered, Lisa’s attractive face began to redden, her nails stuck deep in her palm.

‘Have you considered the pill?’

Oh god, did I lock the door?

‘I used to be on the pill. It wasn’t good for me, ehm, mentally.’

‘I understand. Many girls go through that. Perhaps it wasn’t a good fit. You might want to try a different one,’ she said authoritatively, her tone reminding Lisa of her primary school teacher, whom she both respected and feared.

‘I would really rather not,’

I did. I remember locking it. Unless… Unless I just thought about doing it, and never actually did it. That’s happened to me before.

‘Alright. What about an intrauterine device? Those are very good for,’ Therese paused for a second, ‘for girls like you.’

Cunt.

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, I would strongly recommend you think about it.’ Lisa nodded.

‘Can I get the pill though?’ She asked, unsure of herself and slightly irritated.

‘First day of last period?’

No, I definitely locked it. I remember doing it. I remember putting on my coat and closing the door behind me. I was holding the keys in my right hand… I must have been.

‘I… I am not sure.’

The pharmacist loudly sighed.

‘When did the unprotected intercourse occur?’

‘Last night. Or this morning. Ehm, I mean, and… and this morning.’

Therese returned to her computer in suffocating silence, interrupted only by the sound of her middle-aged typing.

‘Although—’ Lisa hesitated.

Looking up from the screen, the pharmacist raised her eyebrows, waiting for Lisa to speak.

‘It wasn’t exactly unprotected. I mean, we used a condom and —’

‘Did it break?’

‘Maybe. I mean, yes, I think so. Can I just have the pill, please?’

Cold sweat was dripping off Lisa’s neck. It was too early. She was too hungover. The pharmacist was pissing her off.

She was told to wait, and so she waited, nervously and impatiently, convinced that every second that passed made it more likely for a child to begin forming in her stomach, a poor little unwanted child, the result of alcohol and negligence and incredible attraction. Or perhaps just alcohol. Perhaps that’s all there was to it.

Therese returned with the pill and passed her a glass of water to swallow the large, daunting piece of medicine.

Unless I didn’t actually lock it…

Or, or, maybe I did lock but left the keys in the door. And now someone has gotten in and stolen all my electronics. Laptop and iPad and all that… Mom’s gonna kill me.

‘This really shouldn’t be taken lightly, Miss Roberts. The pill seriously impacts your cycle, and it simply isn’t good for you. Please reconsider before taking another one, or putting yourself in a situation where you might need one. The IUD is a very good option, so if you would like to get more information about it, I will get you a pamphlet. Are you feeling dizzy at all?’

Lisa shook her head.

I will check if I have the keys in a minute. If she ever stops fucking talking.

‘Nauseous?’

She shook her head again.

‘Good. If you do happen to throw up within the next two hours, you will need to come back and get another one. If that is the case, we will have to send you to the hospital. We are not able to provide more than one pill in one cycle, as I have mentioned previously. Also, if you are already pregnant, the medicine won’t be effective. This is not an abortion pill, it merely delays ovulation, and if you are already ovulating, it won’t have any effect on the process or indeed the fertilised egg. If you were tracking your period, which you are not, you would be able to tell if you are ovulating, but there are also kits that you can purchase to track your ovulation. The third aisle on the left, by the condoms and pregnancy tests. Remember, your period might be later than usual, if so, there’s no need to panic, it is, after all, what the pill does. Your mental well-being can also be affected; the dosage of hormones is much higher in these than in common contraceptive pills. If you are struggling, reach out to your GP or the services provided by your university. Bleeding is normal and—’

If I am already pregnant, it won’t work. It won’t work.

It’s a lost cause. It’s a fucking lost cause. What if I am ovulating? I am definitely ovulating.

I will have to tell Dad. Would I have one? I don’t wanna have one. I don’t even wanna have the possibility of having one. I will regret it forever. Or I have a kid and — Fuck.

It’s too late. I can feel it. It's definitely too late.

‘All clear?’

Lisa nodded absentmindedly, feeling her stomach tighten, her mouth beginning to water.

I can’t throw up. I can’t throw up. I don’t need to throw up. I am just giving it to myself. I don’t need to throw up.

‘Off you go, then. Good luck, Eliza.’

Moments later, Lisa finally left the shameful back room, sterile and terrifying, and caught herself wandering around the store. She tried on a red shade of lipstick on the back of her hand, looked into mascaras that would almost definitely give her a rash and browsed the collagen products again, wondering if she should reconsider.

Finally, though, she reached aisle three, the aisle, and skipping right through the recommended ovulation tests, she picked up a pregnancy one instead. Early detection. Even earlier detection. As early as two days before a missed period. Frantically, she began studying the labels, and finally, she chose four, of different brands and styles and detection times. Moving on to the condom shelf, she picked up three large boxes, two extra safes and the ribbed ones, for increased pleasure. Having taken no basket, she held her shopping in her arms and began stumbling towards the checkout. Unexpectedly, she noticed the mirror on the far back wall and stopped for a second, to look at the young woman she barely recognised. Drowning in a large black coat like a little girl in her mother’s clothing, her dark hair crumpled on the crown of her head, her makeup-less face stained by traces of stress and hungover, she was disgusted with her appearance and the contents of her browsing, disgusted and ashamed.

It was only 9 AM.

On a Wednesday.

Timothy

That morning, Timothy Glassman returned to his apartment tired and disoriented. He had decided to take a walk from Lisa’s dorm, for he could use the movement and the fresh air. By the time he reached his front door, however, he was overcome by physical fatigue and mental exhaustion.

Nights with Eliza always took the best out of him; he had to recuperate in darkness and silence for days to come. Instead of reaching for the keys, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his left pocket and a box of matches from his right. He sat down on the stairs by his entrance and put a cigarette in his mouth. For a second, he was too spent to even light it, and instead, he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, Eliza’s face was smiling at him, so beautiful and suggestive, and he could still feel her well-proportioned breasts in the cups of his hands.

Dammit. Not now.

He took a strong drag from his crooked cigarette and hoped that the distinct tobacco taste and the morning dose of nicotine would leave Eliza back where he had left her, in the student accommodation on the other side of town.

He sat on the pavement for a minute longer after finishing his cigarette, but the sun was coming out, all bright and orange, and he felt a sudden urge to run inside and hide. Unlike most students, who relished in the occasional warm rays, so precious that far north, Timothy hated the sun for as long as he could remember. What didn’t help was the constant stream of sunshine in his California hometown and the blinding light it emitted, and Timothy’s decision to study across the ocean was, for a large part, motivated by his escape from the sun. He wanted to be hidden under blankets and throws, blinds closed and reading lights dimmed, alone, unbothered, at peace.

Finally, he brought himself to enter the apartment, silently unlocked the door and tiptoed to his room in the back corner of the flat. The smell of liquor and a faint odour of kebab from the kitchen entered his nostrils, and, squeamish and defeated, he disappeared into his room as fast as his tired legs allowed.

Once the door was shut behind him, he could finally breathe. Exactly as he always would, he closed the blinds so that his room was illuminated only by soft rays of the morning light that slipped under the edges of his burgundy curtains. Then he began undressing in the almost darkness, letting his clothes fall onto the ground. His mind was blank at last, emptied by all the liquor he had drunk, silenced by Eliza’s loud kisses and moans.

Before he made it to his bed, Timothy caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above his desk. He couldn’t discern much, after all, it was too dark to notice details of his exhausted face, but for a moment he stood still and studied his reflection with slight panic and dissatisfaction.

He was twenty-one, only turned so a month ago, but he was self-aware enough to know that his prime had already come and gone. He was one of those guys who peak in high school, he realised as he was standing there, naked and exposed, whose beauty had an expiration date. Examining his reflection, he shivered at the realisation that he had one of those youthful, boyish faces that are bound to age badly, as his mother always said, for wrinkles and signs of wear do not sit well on the beauty of a child. Somewhere in his reflection, Timothy spotted his father’s face, his prominent widow’s peak and receding hairline, his swollen eyes and thin lips, which seemed to become thinner with each year that passed, and he wondered with acute sadness if his mother’s genes were strong enough to save him.

This event went on for less than a minute, but the impression that Timothy had left on Timothy was bound to be a long-lasting one. Long-lasting and undoubtedly damaging.

~

The evenings had a way of approaching rapidly if you lived so far north, for during those winter months, the town would get little light and even less sunshine. And, as it was, Timothy’s days were made even shorter by his desire to stay up all night and sleep all day, to avoid the bright light that made his skin crawl.

Maybe he was autistic, he thought, normal people don’t get overwhelmed by simple daylight.

‘Days are to be enjoyed,’ he heard his grandmother’s voice in his head, ‘go outside and don’t come back till sundown.’

He used to hate it when she came for a visit, for she was loud and stern and strict, and her strong Eastern European accent was tearing his ears apart every time she spoke. But she also had an air of strength around her that made Timothy feel safer than with either of his parents. Nothing could happen to him when Baba was around, he was protected. Scared, sure, but protected.

When he first heard the news about her death, untimely, for she always seemed to have more life to live, he was on his way to a hockey match. He was sixteen and had already grown tall, and the combination of his raven-dark hair and Larimar eyes made him one of the most popular guys in his school.

He had a girlfriend at the time, Stacy, with whom he didn’t have much in common apart from math classes and sexual appetite, and whose dramatic outbursts made Timothy’s migraines worse at least twice a week.

‘Baba has died,’ his father told him calmly when their car stopped in traffic as if it were a conversation about the weather or the Kings’ playoff scores. That was it.

‘What happened?’ Timothy asked after a brief pause.

‘Stroke,’ he responded, never letting his eyes off the road, ‘I am sorry to say.’

But he didn’t seem sorry, he seemed indifferent.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Is Mum alright? Should we go home?’

‘Focus on the match, first, Timmy. We’ll deal with the rest later. The captain cannot abandon his team in time for the playoffs.’

And that was that again.

That day, Timothy played hard, as hard as he possibly could, for the legacy of his late grandmother. She wasn’t one for sentiment and emotional weakness, and, so, as Timothy skated he recalled her round face and light eyes, her strong brow and an expression of someone who had endured a lot, or, in her case, someone who had managed to escape communist Russia and start over on a different continent. They won. And when they returned home that evening, he found his mother on the living room couch, squeezing a tissue in her fragile hand, and sobbing softly, quietly enough not to disturb the rest of the household.

‘I shouldn’t have put her in a home, John. I should have let her have a peaceful ending,’ Timothy heard his mother say between sobs in almost a whisper.

‘There’s nothing you could have done, Alla. What, you think she should have lived with us? Don’t be ridiculous.’

Later that evening, after his father had left for one of those fancy parties he had to attend for ‘work’, Timothy knew he needed to stay home, even if it meant listening to Stacy’s complaining for god knows how long. He found his mother in the garden, sitting on their freshly cut grass, barefoot and thin, beautiful but glasslike, so fragile that Timothy feared she would break if he hugged her too tightly.

He hugged her anyway, and she rested her head on his chest, and for the first time, he felt like the parent, embracing a child to keep it from falling apart.

‘You can cry, Mom,’ he whispered, and he could smell the perfume she always wore, and suddenly he felt a wave of incredible sadness. For her, and for himself, and for growing up and growing old and dying.

~

‘I would definitely tap that,’ said James, smirking in the way which always made Timothy feel sick, ‘unless… you're exclusive, Timmy-boy?’

Exhausted, sweaty and miserable, for a moment, Timothy remained silent, regretting gravely, having agreed to go out. The pub was as crowded as any other night, crawling with students of all ages and nationalities, loud, and obnoxious and intoxicated. James had snatched a table closest to the entrance just as another group was leaving, but it was small, and they had to pull in several extra chairs. Time and time again, a stranger’s body rubbed against his shoulder, and the smell of sweat and lack of fresh air aggravated Timothy’s claustrophobia. He needed to get out. Fast.

Instead, he stayed seated and continued sipping on his gin and tonic, a drink which he regretted ordering right after the first taste. He had drunk gin the previous night; in fact, he had killed an entire bottle with Eliza’s help, and the mere taste of the aromatic liquor made his stomach turn and shrivel.

They had been sitting there for a little over thirty minutes, and Timothy was cursing himself for letting his friends drag him wherever they wanted, as they always would.

“Come on, man, just come out for one. You don’t wanna miss out.”

He could have stayed home, he thought, surrounded merely by silence and darkness; he could have saved himself from the anxiety and claustrophobia of the packed pub, he could have watched a documentary and spoken to no one, accompanied solely by his own mind. But Elijah said he had to go, and so he went, for what was the point in arguing over something with no actual significance? Taking a large sip, he felt a wave of calmness from the familiar taste, and for a moment, he was a little more able to let go. That was until Eliza walked in, the natural centre of a large, loud group, and she looked beautiful in her little black dress, almost as beautiful as the night before. Unsure of an appropriate greeting for the girl to whom he had made love the previous night, Timothy turned his face towards his table, hoping to hide from her all-knowing eyes. His friends, however, noticed her right away, and for a moment, Timothy cursed her beauty, the face recognisable in the middle of any crowd.

James’s snarky remark worked, and Timothy’s usual indifference was replaced by a wave of angered panic. Were they exclusive? Who’s to say? It was the reasonable next step, after all, he hadn’t slept with anyone else for over a month, but as distraught as the thought of Eliza with another lover made him, the idea of having the conversation with her seemed equally as unbearable.

‘Not sure,’ he mumbled and hoped the topic would be dropped with his lack of response and clarity. Instead, Eric stepped in.

‘Not sure? Man, you gotta lock that down quick, before somebody else swoops in,’ he exclaimed, his gaze fixed on Eliza’s slim figure leaning against the bar.

The look in Eric’s eyes made Timothy shudder. It was a familiar look, a predatory look, if you will, a look that so many of his friends possessed around women. Timothy clenched his fist under the table, his panic replaced with a pinch of fury which he struggled to express. The hungry eyes of his circle of friends reminded him of the nights he wished to forget. He wondered if he should say something, stand up for Eliza, perhaps, tell them there’s more to her than her aesthetic appearance, that behind the wall of beauty, there is a woman, a woman whose company he’d grown to greatly enjoy. But he let it slide, as he always did, struggling to find the strength to face the group of young men, so confident and bold and opinionated.

‘We’ll see,’ he said cryptically, hoping to end the conversation once and for all, and purposefully avoided looking at Eliza, whose face was now turned in his direction and most likely expected at least a nod of recognition. He didn’t have the strength to do that either.

‘Bet she’s great in the sack. I mean, look at those lips, man,’ Alex grinned and showed his yellow, crooked smile, so characteristic of the Brits, ‘imagine—’

Timothy stood up, and the suddenness of his gesture and the loud creak of his wooden chair interrupted Eric’s thought. He didn’t have to finish, though, everyone knew to what he was referring and Timothy, sickened by how his friends spoke about the woman with whom he had spent almost every night in the past month, decided to step outside and clear his head. He blamed it on his nicotine addiction, and so, putting a cigarette in his mouth, he temporarily left the boys’ table and stepped onto the cold air and wet pavement in front of the pub. As he reached for the door, he could feel Eliza’s eyes on him, or maybe he was just making it up. He could never tell anymore. He always had the hardest time discerning between what he wanted and the truth.

~

Lisa

Miraculously, Lisa didn’t throw up. Not that she ever threw up after a night out, for she rarely suffered from hangovers and her stomach was strong and sturdy and seldom troubled her. Her stomach was not the issue. Her mind was. Ever since she could remember, Lisa was able to give herself the symptoms of any sickness - chest pains, tinnitus, even mouth sores - practically whatever it was she was currently fearing. And since she was currently fearing an unwanted pregnancy, she was painfully aware of all the early pregnancy symptoms she was going to manifest, even if she wasn’t actually pregnant. Which, of course, was always still a possibility.

After her shameful run in the pharmacy, Lisa decided to stay in town. She stuffed her purchases in her large, black handbag, and, despite having nothing in her stomach apart from the large, horrifying pill, she decided to have a coffee and a cigarette in the local Starbucks. She sat outside in solitude, in a gloomy courtyard that was cleaned only occasionally, and rummaged through her handbag searching for the keys. She found them almost instantly, hiding under her French notebook and a pregnancy test. Her relief was, however, short-lived, for it seemed to her the keys didn’t actually prove anything, and least of all that her room was untouched and safe. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, a trick about which she had read in an anxiety help book, and battled with her entire being not to go back and check.

I don’t need to check. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to happen. Even if it’s unlocked, who’s gonna know?

Unless some stranger gets in. Or a drunk student mistakes his room. Amanda’s boyfriend looks like that kind of guy. I bet he slept over again, too.

At one point, she almost walked out, willing to brave the half-hour walk, but she was stopped by her lit cigarette and unfinished coffee, defeated by her morning exhaustion and one particularly suspicious-looking cloud. Proud of herself, but tense nonetheless, she scrolled through social media and waited in vain for the time to pass. She had two hours until her lecture, if she even decided to go, but she knew herself well enough to recognise that being alone in her distasteful room back in the dormitory would only make her thoughts multiply quicker. And so she stayed seated over her massive cup of black coffee and smoked one cigarette after the next, occasionally touching her neck, almost mindlessly, to check if she hadn’t developed a tumour. She hadn’t. A little relieved over the state of her neck and throat, she reached for another cigarette, the seventh of the morning, and decided to shoot a text to Gemma, whose tutorial was about to end.

"Hi, birthday girl! Care for a quick coffee? At the back in Starbucks."

Gemma responded almost immediately, and similarly quickly, she materialised under Lisa’s umbrella by the bins. Lisa greeted her with a loud “Happy Birthday” and pulled up a chair so she could sit.

Gemma’s exhilarated, neon presence illuminated the shadowy courtyard as soon as she appeared. Lisa was glad she was no longer alone, but watching her friend’s put-together appearance so early in the morning, her bleached blonde hair curled, her face covered with layers of makeup, her colourful coat, she felt underdressed and under-excited, lost in the shadows of her mind.

Even more so, because Gemma believed that every woman looked her best under a full-coverage foundation and fake eyelashes, and often criticised Lisa’s “childish” makeup skills. Occasionally, though, she would let her jealousy show - Lisa felt that every girlfriend relationship had some - by sprinkling in a bitter remark about her unfair natural advantage: ‘It’s not fair, your Slavic fucking genes. You and your breathtaking Polish mother.’

~

Lisa had introduced her mother to Gemma a couple of months earlier when she came for an unexpected visit up north, accompanied by her latest boyfriend. Despite being significantly younger, Magdalena was well within her right to compete with Diego's Spanish good looks, and when they paraded around the little town showing off their European clothes and their European beauty, bystanders watched the extraordinary couple with irritating curiosity. Even more awkward was their late-night dinner in the local pizza parlour, for Lisa’s mother only spoke to her daughter in Polish, out of principle. For this, Lisa was generally thankful, after all, she was one of the few bilingual Brits out there, and she could talk to all the other Slavs if she ever chose to.

Sitting opposite her mother’s latest boy toy, who couldn’t understand a word of their dinner conversation, Lisa responded to Magdalena’s nosy questions almost exclusively in one-word answers.

Are you seeing anyone?

Have you gained weight?

What’s with the top? Show a little more cleavage, for crying out loud, till they still want to see it!

Occasionally, Diego would put his large hands around Magdalena's shoulders, and once, when he determined that Lisa wasn’t looking, he very openly squeezed her boob.

‘Diego!’ She exclaimed, and Lisa, disgusted by her mother’s teenage-like behaviour that they could perhaps get away with in Ibiza or Mallorca, prayed for a brisk end to their dinner, and an even brisker end to their relationship. One can only hope.

~

‘How was it?’ Gemma asked and hit her vape, breathing out a large cloud of artificial, cherry-flavoured smoke.

‘What?’

‘He stayed over again, didn’t he?’ ‘How did you know?’

‘Please, the way the evening was going, it was pretty clear.’

Lisa smiled. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

For a moment, Lisa stayed quiet, returning briefly, to Timothy’s embrace. His kisses on her neck in the late-night bar, his hands on her hips in the darkness of her bedroom, the taste of gin and tobacco on his tongue.

‘Same as always. Really fucking good,’ she took a sip of her cold coffee, ‘so good I had to get the morning-after pill,’ she blurted out- immediately cursing her inability to keep her mouth shut.

Gemma grinned, took out a cigarette from Lisa’s half-empty pack and continued her interrogation: ‘Did you go raw or something?’

‘Sure,’ Lisa responded a little too quickly, for she knew that carefree Gemma would deem her latest high dosage of hormones not only unnecessary but also laughable.

‘It’s the best, isn’t it?’ ‘Totally.’

Lisa had no idea what sex without a condom felt like, for she would never dare expose herself to the extra risk. Even when she was on the pill, after the last guy who wasn’t her boyfriend demanded she take care of the contraception, she still insisted on condoms, just to be sure. And even then, she was on the pill for only a couple of months, when the panic attacks started and her anxiety reached a point it had never had before, and she was forced to stop taking it altogether.

If Gemma doesn’t use condoms and still isn’t pregnant, then there’s no chance I am pregnant. I can’t be pregnant. With all the cigarettes and alcohol, and coffee, it surely wouldn’t take. Although —

‘So when can I officially meet him?’

‘There’s no ‘officially’ just yet,’ Lisa admitted and turned the conversation to Gemma’s striking green eye makeup, which was shimmering brightly in the pre-noon light.

~

That evening, Gemma was throwing a birthday party for all her friends, and many randos who would undoubtedly join somewhere between the pub crawl and the late-night dancing in the Student Union. Lisa hated pub crawls, for they seemed useless to her - what was the point in leaving a perfectly pleasant pub and returning to the cold wind, only to desperately search for a spot somewhere else mere minutes later? She liked to sit and enjoy, argue and discuss, order one bottle after the next, and share anecdotes with the few whose company she genuinely enjoyed.

But it was Gemma’s birthday, and despite caring for each other honestly and deeply, the two of them had very different definitions of fun. Lisa had planned a birthday surprise for her, a nice quiet dinner in the company of only her dearest friends, but her plan was never realised, for Gemma had birthday wishes of her own. And so a pleasant dinner with good conversation turned into an exhausting pub crawl, and Lisa could already feel the blisters on her feet and the hole in her bank account that would inevitably follow.

Lisa never seemed to have enough money, although her allowance was considerably generous. She was supported by both her parents, monthly and separately, and received the occasional bit extra from her paternal grandparents. And yet, she often found herself short on cash long before the month was over, for she had an expensive taste and an even more expensive disorder.

In the past few months, she had spent hundreds of pounds on pregnancy tests, calming, sleep-inducing teas and well-being supplements and dozens on monthly subscriptions to yoga and meditation apps. And then there were the doctors’ appointments, private because there was a waitlist for the public ones. The bookshelf in her well-decorated dorm room boasted more self-help books than coursebooks, her blush pink sheets were made of silk, for more luxurious sleep, and her collection of different scented candles was kept in the closet for when the inspection would come. But all of Lisa’s efforts seemed in vain, and instead, it was cigarettes that calmed her during a particularly anxious moment and alcohol that temporarily cured her insomnia.

Silk sheets my ass, she told herself after a week of sleeping in the splurge purchase that should have transformed her sleep, and, spraying the last of the lavender mist on her pillow, she gave up and had a glass of wine instead. It was a vicious cycle. The more she drank and the more she smoked, the more anxious she became, for she was terrified of the risks related to substance abuse and tobacco addiction and hated herself for continuously reaching for them.

~

Despite exhaustion and full-body shivers, Lisa returned to her dorm with barely enough time to get ready to leave again. She dreaded the silence of solitude in her private bedroom and was determined to spend as little time there as possible.

Her anxiety had been intensifying throughout the day, and despite her best efforts to be present, she could barely focus on her French tutorial and English literature lecture. She had another coffee between her classes and even snuck out halfway through to have a cigarette.

Leaning against the stone wall of the lecture theatre, she thought of Timothy again and attempted to piece together details of the previous night. They left the bar at closing, of that she was sure, but how they got to her dorm room remained a mystery to her, for she had gaps in her memory which, though common, always made her nervous. She recalled opening a bottle of wine and, later, a bottle of gin that had spilt onto the carpet and was now emitting an unbearable smell that filled her entire room. She even put together snippets of their pseudointellectual conversation about the American healthcare system that, in the light of day, made little sense, and remembered his initiating touches, so tender and convincing that she struggled to keep playing hard to get.

To her disdain, Lisa could recall only bits and pieces of their encounter, but thinking again about his strong, slim body, his dark, wavy hair, his precise movements and full lips, she felt a wave of longing, a sexual urge, if you will, combined with a feeling she recognised but refused to admit.

We’re just fucking. That’s all there is to it, she told herself, but reached to check her phone to see if he had texted.

He hadn’t. He rarely did.

The truth was, she was always the one to reach out. It was a curious situation, really, because Lisa knew that Timothy wanted her as much as she wanted him, at least sexually. He proved it every time they had sex, or even kissed; it was a passion that couldn’t be acted, it had to be real, and it was. Or maybe it wasn’t.

She imagined Timothy materialising on the other side of the street, with his messy hair and effortlessly chic clothing, the way everyone tended to in a town that size, and she hoped to run into him as much as she hoped she wouldn’t. She knew she looked like hell from her pharmacy reflection- there was no time for a shower or makeup in the morning, and she probably still smelled like sex. Or him. Or both.

Unsurprisingly, she didn’t run into him that afternoon. Timothy didn’t like to be run into, to be found.

~

When Lisa finally unlocked the door to her bedroom, which had, indeed, been locked, she immediately noticed that her lamp was missing, and so was a candle she had left on the desk. For fuck’s sake.

According to the sheet of paper with red Xs in several of the boxes, she failed the inspection. Again. The lamp had been confiscated (despite being PAT tested), and the candle was deemed a fire hazard. The fact of the matter didn’t bother Lisa, for it was a dance she had done many times before and which had a step-by-step solution. First, you find the cleaner in charge of the inspection in the given month. Then you promise never to use said hazards again and beg for their safe return. If she’s Polish, and they usually are, you’re in luck. Lastly, you acquire your belongings and put them right back where they had been and remember to hide them better next month. Easy. However annoying, there was a straightforward solution for Lisa’s confiscated items.

She had taken out the trash.

Fuck.

Now, I'll never know.

Why didn’t I check in the morning, before I left? How could I have been so reckless? If I had only seen the condom, then I could have been sure… If it were broken, at least I would know. Now there’s no way of knowing. I will have to wait till I get my period.

If I get my period. Fuck, shit, fuck.

Searching for a semblance of control, she began roaming through her bag, each of her movements distraught and imperfect, consumed by panic and fear.

Unable to find for what she was desperately searching, she dumped the contents of her handbag on the beige floor. Kneeling on the carpet stained by generations, in a circle of notebooks, and pens, and tampons, and condoms, she finally found the test she had deemed most secure. Without taking her shoes off or hanging her coat, she began tearing the package, impatiently, frantically, and reached for the leaflet she had known by heart.

It’s not gonna show yet. It’s too early. Unless —

Taking a pregnancy test was second nature to her; she knew exactly how to stand and how to angle, where to put it while she waited, and how many seconds till the first sign of a result appeared on the deceivingly small display. She reread the instructions anyway, just to be sure.

Maybe I am already pregnant. Not from today, but from before. He had been staying over almost every night.

What was I thinking, not taking one before?

It might even be too late for an abortion.

What are the laws about that now?

She felt a wave of nausea, pregnancy nausea, most likely, and stared at the timer on her phone. 5, 4, 3, 2… She lifted the test to have a closer look and even used her flashlight – the cheap, artificial bathroom light couldn’t be trusted. The words were clear and perfectly legible. NOT PREGNANT.

It says not pregnant. Not pregnant. I am not pregnant. Thank fuck.

A wave of relief replaced the wave of anxiety.

Unless…

Squeezing the test in her shivering hand, she walked out of the bathroom and towards the window, determined to see the result in the natural light. Only, it was almost dark outside.

The investigation continued. She tried the desk lamp. Then the reading light. Finally, she decided to take a picture of it – in case her eyes were deceiving her.

~

Lisa: What does this say?

Mary: Not pregnant.

Lisa: U sure?

Mary: Positive.

Lisa: Very funny.

~

‘Do you know that reassurance only perpetuates the obsessive cycle? It’s a compulsion, Lisa.’ Georgia, her therapist, moved her large cat-shaped glasses that had slipped onto the bridge of her nose.

‘But it makes me feel better.’

‘It sure does. But for how long?’

Lisa remained silent, knowing it was a trick question.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said after a moment, her voice calm and convincing, ‘It works.’

‘Sure, temporarily. That’s why it’s a vicious cycle. Let me show you.’

Georgia pulled out a piece of paper from the back of her notebook. The one in which she wrote about her patients. Confidentially. Terrifyingly.

She drew a circle.

Obsession - Reassurance - Relief - Obsession

‘You see? It perpetuates itself.’

‘Then what do I do?’ Lisa’s inherited defiance was losing power with each stroke of the therapist’s pen.

‘You resist.’