Scents are tricky too. Say, cake for example, which most people love the smell of, has become completely repulsive. So much so that I would rather spend my time in a Coachella portable outhouse than step near a bakery. Normally my mom’s strawberry shampoo is a pleasant smell, but now I have to hold my breath when I walk past her. It’s like I suddenly have the nose of a bloodhound.

The scent of bacon wafts up from the kitchen. The greasy smell instantly turns my stomach. Springing up off the mattress, I get out of bed and I trip over some clothes on the floor, knocking everything off my dresser in my rush to the bathroom. Luckily I catch myself before I fall, but I’m not able to catch the perfume bottles before they break. Great. More new scents to make my head swim. I barely make it to the bathroom on time.

“You okay, Remy?” my mom calls from downstairs when she hears all the noise I’m making.

I throw up again and again. My stomach must be the size of a keg because it keeps coming. I’m choking, trying to catch my breath. It takes me a minute to reply. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, even though I feel the opposite of fine. This is what road kill would feel like if it could feel anything. That’s me. Road kill. Not only that, but I look like shit, too. I can see my refection in an open compact mirror on the countertop. My skin is pasty, dark circles around my eyes that almost look green.

I’m leaning against the cool porcelain, hugging the toilet, when my mom comes into the room to check on me. She puts her back against the door, arms crossing her chest.

“What?” I say, when she gives me that observant mom look.

“You’re pregnant.”

throw up. I spit into the toilet and groan. “What? No,” I say, wiping my mouth with a wad of

hell am I so cold, and yet uncomfortably hot at

head I’m trying to remember my last period. It’s difficult because I’m not one of those girls who keeps track. I’ve never needed to before now, so I haven’t made a habit of it. Now that I think about it, I realize it’s been a while

I thought it would take longer than that to get pregnant. It makes sense, though. Deacon and I fuck like crazy whenever we get the chance—which isn’t nearly enough in my opinion—and he always comes inside of me. Some

on,” my mom says with a

to crawl back in bed and hide under my sheets until this terrible nausea goes away. If

to get you a

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