Wild One | Bbangsaz

Chapter 11

Hanni's

My pregnancy test appointment crawls closer. I itch with curiosity and anticipation, but I force myself to be patient and wait out the two weeks instead of raiding the corner drugstore for pee sticks.

I didn't plan on contacting Minji until I knew whether I needed another dose of sperm, but some combination of restlessness and horniness compels me to text her a few days after our last "meeting." Before I know it, we're texting every few days, although usually just to complain about work.

At home one night, I'm alternating browsing baby supplies online, trying not to eat a second bowl of butter pecan ice cream, and talking to Minji. I've been in a shitty mood all week, and work today only made it worse. Luckily, Minji understands. Her company is apparently going through a rough merger with the competition, which only cements my conviction that selling out is the wrong thing to do.

After an hour of mutual bitching, I'm starting to feel somewhat better-until I go to the bathroom and find a big, fat, ugly red streak in the crotch of my panties. There's even a slight smear on my white leggings, just to add salt to injury.

Dammit, this is the freaking icing on the cake.

I stare at the mocking stain. Everything makes sense now. Mood swings, food cravings, feeling fat and tired, wanting to drag Minji back into my bed ... I let hope lead me astray. I've been deluding myself into interpreting everything as pregnancy symptoms when it was just goddamn PMS.

I have never inserted a tampon so angrily in my life.

I ball up my bloodstained clothes and slam-dunk them into the hamper. Fuck my entire life. I need alcohol. I'm one hundred percent baby-free, so I'm allowed to drink. Hell, I'm entitled.

I change into a fresh outfit-with black leggings this time because, fuck you, Aunt Sandara-pack up my purse, and head for the nearest bar, Crossroads Tavern. I've only been there a few times, but it's a decent enough watering hole, and more importantly, it's nearby so I can walk there. Drinking enough to dull my emotions without having to worry about driving home is my top priority right now.

The bar is packed, and as I squeeze inside, I see why. Everyone's attention is glued to the big-screen televisions blaring a championship basketball game. Oh, whatever. I'm just here to drown my sorrows-as long as I can find somewhere to sit, I don't care how noisy it is.

I shoulder my way through to the bar and shout over the noise of the crowd, "Double shot of tequila, please. And I want to open a tab."

The bartender nods and trades me my order for my credit card. I take a gulp, shuddering at the burn, then sigh at the sweet warmth that spreads through my veins.

The crowd erupts in earsplitting clapping and hollering. Someone must have scored a crucial basket. Even though I don't follow either of the teams playing, I turn my attention to the nearest television, just for something for my eyeballs to do while I drink. But I've barely finished my order before that gets too boring.

On a tequila-lubricated impulse, I pull out my phone and text Minji: Hey, party at Crossroads, you in? I throw in a couple of random emojis for good measure, then get back to drinking.

I've polished off another tequila shot when a hand lands on my lower back. I whip around, prepared to deck whatever random asshole is trying to grope me, and stop short at the sight of Minji. Looking agitated, she yells something unintelligible over the ruckus.

"What?" I shout.

"You shouldn't be drinking," she shouts back.

"I can do what I want." My third shot arrives-or does it count as my fourth, since the first was a double? Doesn't matter. I toss it down my throat.