Page 57 of The Girl with No Name
He looks up at me and says, “I think you should move in with me.”
“Isn’t that a little fast?” We’ve only been together a couple of months.
“Well, since your lease is ending, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?”
I shake my head. “That feels like a lot.”
“Aren’t you one-hundred-percent in on this relationship?”
I consider everything for a moment. It’s a little overwhelming how fast we’re moving, but isn’t that what you do when you’re in love? Isn’t that how it feels? You take things to the next level. “It feels almost too good to be true.”
“It is true, though. This will be a great thing. You can just save a little money.”
“Okay, then. Yes.” I smile and move over next to him on the couch to give him a hug. “I’m in.”
“All in?” He arches an eyebrow, but I get the feeling he just wants to hear me say the words. It isn’t that he doubts me.
“All in,” I confirm.
I guess it does make sense. I already have a lot of things at his place, and I stay here most nights anyway. And after all, we’re in love.
My lease isup at the end of July, so I start to move my things into his place, little by little. Eventually the only thing I use my little studio apartment for is painting. And the only things I have time for are my bar shifts, Aunt Sarah, and my studio. All the rest is spent with Gatsby. I hardly see my friends, but there’s a lot going on, and I’m falling deeper and deeper in love.
Gatsby likes sex. He loves to put on music and make a big deal of it. He likes to tell me how incredible my body is, how it’s the perfect shape for him, and how he’ll never get tired of me.
On the last day of July, I fully move out of my apartment and into his place. To celebrate, we go out to a bar with his friends.
I’m coming back from the bathroom, and I notice his friends are all laughing. Their expressions change as I approach.
Gatsby looks down at his phone. “Guys, I have to go. My friend…” He looks up at me. “He’s suicidal. I have to go meet him.”
“Oh my God. Who?” I ask.
“It’s my friend Tom. He’s been going through some rough stuff.”
“Okay. I know that’s…something very close to your heart.”
“Yeah.”
I kiss him goodbye, my heart filling with admiration for him for looking out for his friend. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. See you later.”
I stay at the bar for another hour or so with Gatsby’s friends, chatting and playing music on the Touch Tunes before I excuse myself. When I get home that night—my first official night at Gatsby’s place—I can’t sleep.
I make some hot cocoa, even though it’s summer, and light some candles. I’ve been feeling emotional. Aunt Sarah has three months or less left to live according to her doctors. I look over at the painting I made for Gatsby on the easel. I consider it my best work to date.
I turn on Netflix for a few minutes, but I can’t concentrate on the plot of the show, so I turn it off and sit in silence in his apartment.Ourapartment now. Questions swirl in my mind.Who is this suicidal friend? Why have I never heard of him before?
Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over me, and I feel the urge to vomit.
No, this isn’t an urge; I really have to puke. I pad toward the bathroom and spend five minutes with my head in the toilet bowl. Strange. I’m not drunk. I don’t feel sick other than myneed to vomit. Panic creeps in, and I can’t ignore a certain possibility:Am I pregnant?
With trembling hands, I find a 24-hour pharmacy on Google. Before I take a Lyft there, I text Gatsby:
Luna: Hey. Everything okay with your friend?
The text goes through, but there’s no immediate answer.