Free Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy by Ophira Eisenberg Page A

the hostel and asked to borrow their equivalent of the Yellow Pages. I flipped to the “Family Planning” section and let my fingers do the walking. In bold, a clinic advertised free pregnancy tests for all New Zealand citizens. Free to citizens . . . Hmmm . Inspiration struck, and I hatched a plan.
    I’d learn the accent.
    I’d master the northern–New Zealand accent, pose as a local, and get a free exam. Simple! I didn’t bother to consider yet what I would do if the results of the exam were positive. I just focused on the first step, which consisted of spending the day milking as much conversation as I could from cashiers and traffic cops, then imitating their lilt.
    Word to the wise: The New Zealander accent is subtle.
    The next morning, I put on my cleanest clothes and marched into the clinic.
    “G’day,” I said. “Oi was theenking oi might need a teest to see if oi’m pregguhs.”
    The nurse smiled and invited me into her office. She closed the door behind us, whipped around, and in a perfect New Zealand accent that sounded nothing like mine, said, “I know you’re not from around here, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
    The sheepskin rug had been pulled out from under me. I broke down and told her everything—about Michael, the bead store, and Penguins on Broadway, building to the moment at Fraser Island and the nameless Brit who got me here; but most important, I told her I couldn’t lose the love of my life. “I never thought I’d let this happen!” I wailed. The nurse handed me a tissue, patted me on the back, and gave me the free test.
    Fifteen minutes later, which is four years in pregnancy-scare time, she announced, “Congratulations. You’re not pregnant. Just a bit overstressed.”
    “But promise me that when you get home, you’ll tell your boyfriend everything.” She gave me a meaningful, motherly look.
    What?! Oh no. I wasn’t doing that . The problem was over. My pleas to the universe had been answered—or I’d somehow willed myself to not be pregnant. Whatever the case, it was over. No one would ever know. But I nodded yes and she said, “Good luck,” and probably shook her head as she tossed my paperwork in the garbage.
    The next day, I boarded a plane to Los Angeles. I was ecstatic. Wanting to look nice for Michael, I bought a cheap summer dress and a new pair of underwear at the airport. I’d read in a fashion magazine that if you wanted to be “fresh” for your companion, you should change your underwear right before landing.
    My first whiff of LA smelled like cheap floral perfume, as opposed to the fragrant smell of the tropics I’d become accustomed to. My backpack, on the other hand, stank of body odor and was overflowing with dirty T-shirts, snow globes, and a six-foot didgeridooI’d brought back for Michael. After customs and immigration, I wheeled my baggage cart to the sliding doors leading to the main terminal. I was seconds away from seeing the man I’d spent an entire year pining over.
    The doors swooshed open to a long ramp flanked with hundreds of people, all eagerly awaiting their friends and loved ones. As I walked up the slope in a parade of other arrivals, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to spot him. It’d been a year—what if I couldn’t recognize him? What if he was late? What if he’d decided not to come?
    And then . . . there he was. The crowd around him fell away, and all I could see was Michael, waving and smiling at me. The Bunsen burners sparked to life, and I abandoned my baggage cart, which rolled back down the ramp, and ran shrieking like a lovestruck lunatic toward him.
    The crowd around us went wild, clapping and cheering, as I flew into his arms, shaking and crying. I kept repeating, “Oh my god! Oh my god!” And Michael kept repeating, “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
    He kept anticipating that our elongated hug was over and would let go, but when I wouldn’t, he’d rewrap his arms around me.