Tara has a pregnancy test in her linen closet. A gag gift from the last woman she slept with, a Packer U media professor who left the school to become Bebe Neuwirth’s personal assistant in Manhattan. She stands in the bathroom doorway, watching Angela unpack the kit.
I can’t look, the latter says several minutes later, sitting on the toilet, left hand covering her eyes, right one holding out the stick she’s just peed on. Tell me.
Tara steps forward. Looks. Pauses.
Oh sweetie, she says. It’s an old test. It’s probably no good anymore.
Angela, mouth agape, looks now herself. Then catches a glimpse of her horrified expression in the compact mirror on the sink beside her. I’m never five days late, she says. Ever.
