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)
Another excuse to let me go.
As I pass the guest room where Kia’s staying, I pause. It would be simpler to shoot her a text and let her know I’ve left. Going to work with me yesterday was likely a scarring experience she has zero interest in repeating.
Same, girl. Same.
But something stops me from taking the easy way out.
Maybe it’s some kind of sixth sense.
Or guilt.
Or maybe it’s the memory of being her age and pretending to be confident while the world continuously shifted beneath my feet. I understand what it feels like to wake up and realize you don’t know who’s still on your side.
Instead of escaping to the elevator, I knock against the partially open door before easing it wider and peeking into the darkened space. “Kia?”
When there isn’t an answer, I hesitantly push the door open farther and take in the rumpled bed, sheets tangled in disarray. My gaze flicks toward the bathroom. The door isn’t fully shut, and a thin sliver of light spills through the gap. The last thing I want to do is intrude.
As I take a step in retreat, a muffled sound filters out. The harsh gagging is unmistakable.
Oh boy.
I really hope it’s not the eggrolls making an unexpected reappearance.
She wasn’t kidding about how much she wanted to eat last night. My guess is that her stomach wasn’t in agreement with that decision.
“Kia?” I cross the room and pause at the threshold.
She looks up from where she’s crouched near the toilet, her eyes watery and ringed with exhaustion.
“Hey, are you all right?” I ask.
She swipes at her mouth with a shaking hand as tears slide down her pale cheeks. “I’m fine. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you didn’t.” I wet a washcloth with warm water and kneel beside her, pressing it gently to her face while I brush a few damp strands of hair from her forehead. “I was heading to work and wanted to see if you needed anything before I left.”
She shakes her head weakly. “I’m fine. I think it’s almost done now.”
Poor thing.
So far, I’ve been lucky with this pregnancy. No morning sickness or running for the bathroom at dawn. But I know plenty of women who are plagued with it for weeks, even months.
The thought lodges in my head, ringing with sudden clarity. “Kia… You, um, wouldn’t happen to be pregnant, would you?”
There’s no way.
She’s a senior in college.
When fear flashes across her face, I know I’m right.
“Please don’t tell Ollie,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “He’ll freak out. God, he’ll be so disappointed.”
I lower myself to the floor before sliding an arm around her shoulders. She feels so fragile pressed against me, her small frame all bones and sharp edges, like she could splinter beneath the weight she’s carrying. The faint floral trace of her shampoo clings stubbornly to the air, at odds with the sour tang of bile. The cold tile seeps through the knees of my pants as I tug her closer.
“Hey. It’s okay. I won’t say anything. At least, not right now. But I hope you realize you don’t have to do this alone. You have your family.”
Her eyes brim with fresh tears. “They’re going to be so mad at me for letting this happen. I should have been more careful.”
I raise a brow and attempt a wry smile. “Girl… you’re preaching to the choir over here. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re kind of in the same boat.”
Her lips tremble as a ghost of a smile breaks through. It’s not much, but it’s something.
“What about the dad?” I ask gently.
She shakes her head, bitterness settling over her expression. “He’s not involved.” A humorless laugh slips out. “When I told him about the baby, he said it wasn’t his problem.”
What an asshole.
“I should have known better. He’s not someone you can depend on.” She blinks, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. “The worst part is that he’s a hockey player on the college team. He’s everywhere on campus. I just couldn’t stay there.”
“No.” I tighten my hold around her shoulders. “Of course you couldn’t.”
Her admission slams into me. I can almost imagine myself in her place—alone, scared, trying to convince myself I don’t need anyone. Maybe that’s why I keep Oliver at arm’s length. Because the moment you start to believe someone will stay, that’s when they leave.
I swallow hard, squeezing Kia tighter. “I get it, but sometimes keeping everything to yourself only makes it heavier.”
She sniffles, nodding against me as her shoulders shake. “I don’t even know if I can do this.”
“You can,” I tell her firmly, even if a small, doubting part of me doesn’t fully believe it myself. The reassurance comes out strong, but inside it rings hollow. Because maybe I’m saying it to both of us.