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“I figured it was stress, jet lag, not eating properly, maybe some stomach bug. I’ve tried stomach medicine, anti-nausea stuff, pretty much anything I thought might help.”

“And none of it has?”

“Not really.”

Chloe studies me for a little too long.

I lower the towel. “What?”

She hesitates before asking, “Have you taken a pregnancy test?”

I stare at her.

“Shut the fuck up, Chloe.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m on the pill.”

“I know you’re on the pill,” she says.

“Didn’t you switch prescriptions while you were in London?”

I turn back toward the sink.

“Yes, but I switched over.”

“Did you switch cleanly?”

I glance at her in the mirror.

“What does that mean?”

“Was there any gap? Did you start the new pack late? Miss anything? Screw up the overlap?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“My schedule was insane for a while,” I say.

“There might’ve been a day or two where I took it late, but I wasn’t just skipping pills.”

Chloe’s face tells me that answer has not reassured her.

“No,” I say immediately.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m just saying we should rule it out.”

“There is nothing to rule out. I’ve been stressed, I haven’t been sleeping, I’ve barely been eating, and I flew across an ocean three weeks ago. My body is pissed off.”

“You’ve been nauseated for a week, exhausted, barely able to eat, and you just threw up the soup you finally managed to keep down.”

“That could still be food.”

“Blaire, you’re barely eating enough food to blame the food.”