Kimmie hits the wall with the back of her head. “You know… sometimes I’m not sure who I am, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I feel like people are always trying to tell me who to be. They’re always dumping their expectations on me about how I should behave, or how I should think, just because I’m Asian.” She scoffs. “I’ve spent so much time trying to figure out who I want to be—what clothes I wanna wear, and deciding how I see the world. But now I feel like I’ve become someone completely new, and this girl scares me a bit—the one who likes to drink, and play in a band, and have sex with her boyfriend. The one who’s sitting on the bathroom floor at Duane Reade, waiting to find out if she’s pregnant.”

“You’d never told me any of this,” I say slowly.

“I know,” Kimmie answers. “I guess… you and Adam weren’t the only ones who had hidden sides.”

I sit next to her in silence, watching as she takes slow breaths through her mouth, trying to hold back tears.

“I kinda want to go back, you know?” she says. “To when I could hang out with the two of you during the week, and sing at church on Sundays, and everything was so simple. And don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying I don’t want to play music, or that I would give up what I have with Darryl. It’s just that… lately, I don’t feel like the old Kimmie. And I kinda miss her.”

“You’re still that Kimmie,” I say. “You can be both.”

“Maybe,” she says, turning away from me. “But… if I can do that, maybe you could, too. Maybe we could figure it out together.”

I reach out to squeeze her hand again. She squeezes back, and we stay like that for a few seconds, until I think to look down at my phone and realize that the full five minutes have passed.

“It’s time.”

“Oh my God.” Kimmie gets up from the floor. “You look at it first. Or no—I have to look at it first.”

I get up slowly, watching as she takes a few steps toward the sink. She picks up the stick, holding her breath, and lifts it up to her face.

“It’s positive,” she says.

“What?”

“Oh my God. I’m pregnant.”

“It’s probably not completely accurate. You could still—”

“It’s right here, Matt! One line—pregnant.”

“Wait, one line?” I ask, picking up the box again. “Kimmie, that means not pregnant.”

“What?”

“Here,” I say, stretching out the box toward her. “Two lines means pregnant. One line, not pregnant.”

“Oh my God,” she says. A second later, she lets out a shriek. “Oh my God! I’m not pregnant!”

She wraps her arms around my neck.