The Seven Husbands of Taylor Swift

27

TAYLOR SWIFT
The club was the kind of place where only the elite were allowed entry—exclusive, glamorous, and dripping with opulence. Yet, somehow, despite all the high-class pretensions, it still managed to be trashy. The dim lighting, the overpowering scent of expensive perfume mingling with sweat, and the thumping bass from the speakers that reverberated through your bones—it all felt more suffocating than sophisticated.

Joe had been mingling with friends all night, and so had I. We hadn't spoken much, though not for his lack of trying. He'd approached me several times, his hand on my arm, his eyes searching mine, but each time, I'd brushed him off with a tight-lipped smile and some excuse about needing to find someone or get another drink. I knew he was confused—hurt, even—but I couldn't help it. For days now, I'd been avoiding him, sidestepping real conversation, pretending everything was fine. But deep down, I knew I couldn't keep this up forever. I loved him too much to keep lying to him—and to myself.

The truth was, I'd been ignoring more than just Joe. I'd been ignoring myself, refusing to acknowledge the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in the pit of my stomach. I just wanted to carry on with life as if everything was normal. But the façade was cracking, and I knew I couldn't hold it together much longer.

With a deep breath, I steeled myself, finally mustering some semblance of courage. I downed the last of my water and walked over to Joe, who was standing by the bar, laughing at something one of his friends had said. He looked so carefree, so blissfully unaware of the storm brewing inside me.

"Hey, I'm going to head to the bathroom," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Can you get me another water?"

Joe took the empty glass from my hand, his smile faltering slightly as he looked at me. "Yeah, sure. You okay?"

"Yeah, just...I'll be right back." I forced a smile and quickly turned away before he could ask any more questions.

The hallway leading to the bathrooms was just as chaotic as the rest of the club—neon lights flashing in time with the music, people pressed up against the walls, making out or whispering in each other's ears. The walls were covered in graffiti, an artful attempt at edginess that only added to the place's grime. I pushed my way through, avoiding eye contact with anyone, and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

The bathroom was no better. The tiles were cracked, the sink stained, and the air thick with the smell of cheap air freshener trying—and failing—to mask the stench of spilled alcohol and sweat. Graffiti covered every inch of the walls, a mess of vulgar scribbles and half-hearted attempts at art. I leaned against the door, closing my eyes for a moment as the reality of what I was about to do hit me.

"Jesus Christ, why did I agree to go out tonight?" I muttered to myself, feeling a wave of nausea wash over me. I didn't belong here. I should have stayed home. But no, I had to pretend, had to keep up appearances, had to lie to everyone, including myself.

I fumbled through my purse, my fingers trembling as I pulled out the small cardboard box. A pregnancy test. In a club bathroom. The absurdity of it all made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I'd planned to take it when I got home, but I couldn't wait any longer. The anxiety was eating me alive. I needed to know, even if the answer terrified me.

I stared at the box for a long moment, my heart pounding in my chest. This was crazy. I didn't need to do this, not here, not now. But as I started to put the test back in my purse, a sudden wave of nausea hit me hard. I barely made it to the toilet in time, retching violently, my throat burning as I emptied what little was in my stomach. My eyes watered as I gasped for air, my hands gripping the edge of the toilet seat for support.