Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
The first swallow burns going down.
The second one isn’t much better.
Outside, the city glows. In here, it’s just me and my own restless thoughts. Rina can lie to herself all she wants, pretending that what happened meant nothing.
But I meant what I said earlier.
We’re not done.
In fact, we’re only getting started.
23
Rina
I’m still out of sorts the next morning as I type a message in the group chat.
The memory of last night clings to me like a second skin that’s impossible to peel off.
Oliver in the bathroom.
The press of his hard body.
The warm scrape of his mouth against mine.
It all loops through my head on a slow, relentless reel.
The way I melted into him.
Again.
The man is like an addiction I have no idea how to beat.
Me: Need advice. Bakery?
Callie: We got you, girl.
Sloane: Coffee and a dirty hustler will be waiting.
Lilah: Leaving in fifteen.
Me: You’re all the best.
Knowing my girls have my back steadies me enough to move through my normal routine. By the time I push through the door of Lakeshore Sweets an hour later, my nerves are frayed to the breaking point. The comforting scent of sugar and cinnamon usually wraps around me like a warm blanket.
Today, it’s too sweet.
Too heavy.
Almost as if the air itself is closing in on me.
Callie waves me toward the corner table with a warm smile. Lilah glows, her bump straining against a cozy sweater, happiness radiating off her. Sloane eyes me over the rim of her mug, wearing that look she gets when she’s trying to dissect my mood and figure out how to fix it. She’s protective, fierce, and unapologetically loyal.
A few minutes later, Callie sets a steaming mug in front of me. I wrap my hands around it, desperate for something to steady my nerves. The bitter scent of espresso hits my nose, and nausea rolls through my belly. I jerk back, setting the cup down a little too quickly. The clatter makes all three women look up at once.
“Is something wrong with the coffee?” Callie asks with a frown.
“No.” The reply scrapes out as I push the mug away. “It just hit me wrong.”
Fatigue spreads through me. It’s the kind sleep can’t fix. Everything that’s happened lately feels heavier by the day, seeping into every part of my life. My sleep, my mood, even the pit that’s settled at the bottom of my stomach.
Lilah’s light laugh cuts through the quiet. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant? During my first trimester, coffee made me nauseous. I couldn’t stand the smell of it.”
Her question lands like a sucker punch.
Pregnant?
No way.
Even the thought is ridiculous.
My brain scrambles for another explanation. Bad fish, stress—anything that makes sense. Half the time I barely eat, and sleep is hit-or-miss. Of course I’d feel off.
I can’t be pregnant.
I just can’t be.
Except… I start counting backward, tracking weeks in my head, each one slipping like sand through my fingers. The numbers blur. Every date I land on feels wrong. My stomach twists, turning into more of a cramp.
No.
No.
No.
I’m not that girl who misses things. I keep calendars. I plan. I don’t make mistakes like this.
My throat closes around the thought before it can fully form. The room suddenly feels smaller.
It’s too warm.
Much too bright.
The sound of clinking cups and chatter presses in until panic prickles beneath my skin.
“I… uh… just remembered a meeting.” My voice cracks as I shove back in my chair. The legs screech against the tile, making me wince. I grab my purse, keys, phone—anything to keep my hands from trembling—and force myself upright before my friends can see through the lie. “Talk soon.”
As soon as I step into the chill outside, the warmth vanishes, replaced by a bite of wind. I’m hoping it’ll be enough to clear my head. My heels strike the sidewalk, a staccato cadence that sounds too much like running as Lilah’s question chases me down the block.
Are you sure you’re not pregnant?
I stumble along the busy sidewalk until the harsh glow of a pharmacy sign comes into view. A bus hisses past, and someone laughs into a phone, as if the world isn’t tilting beneath my feet. The automatic doors whoosh open, releasing a blast of sterile air that smells like antiseptic and plastic.
It only makes me more nauseous.
Fluorescent lights blaze overhead as I grab a basket and force my legs to move down the family-planning aisle. Rows of boxes blend into a dizzying array of colors. Condoms. Ovulation kits. Dozens of pregnancy tests line the shelves in neat, pastel packaging.
My vision swims as I reach out with a hand trembling so badly, I nearly knock half the boxes off the shelf. I grab one and then another, just in case I mess up the first test. My fingers squeeze them like lifelines before tossing both into the basket.
A woman passes by, balancing a toddler on her hip. “Hold still, sweetie,” she murmurs, brushing a curl off the child’s forehead.