“You’re pregnant.”
Everything in me froze.
“What?”
“You’re pregnant, Ms. Daniels. About eight weeks along.” She paused. “Congratulations.”
Eight weeks… two months… the exact amount of time since…
“Oh my God.”
My throat closed. My pulse shot up, as a mixture of fear, disbelief and heart break took over. The nurse kept talking, explaining next steps, vitamins, follow-up appointments, but I didn’t hear a damn word. My brain was stuck on one sentence:I’m pregnant… with a stranger’s baby.
I checked myself out of the hospital once they finished the last round of tests. The nurse offered to call someone for me,but I shook my head and ordered an Uber instead. I walked out with the little discharge folder pressed to my chest, feeling like everybody could somehowseewhat she’d just told me. The ride home was a blur. The driver tried to make small talk, but all I heard was white noise. My stomach felt tight, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and every street we passed looked unreal, like I was watching somebody else’s life through a window.
When we pulled up to my townhouse, I thanked him, stepped inside, and finally let the silence close around me. My keys hit the counter. My purse slid to the floor. I stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing. Then I grabbed my phone, looked through my email, and found the number to Winter Haven. If there waseven a chancehe was still in their system… I had to try. It rang twice before a woman answered.
“Winter Haven Resort, this is Marielle speaking. How may I assist you?”
My voice cracked on the first word. “Hi… I—I stayed there two months ago. I’m trying to get in touch with another guest who was there the same week.”
“Okay,” she said kindly. “And you’re reaching out in regard to…?”
I gripped the phone, trying to find the right words. “It’s… personal. I really need to contact him.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her tone shifting into that firm, professional wall. “But we do not release guest information for any reason. Privacy is one of our highest guarantees.”
My throat tightened. “I’m not asking for his address or anything. Just… his real name. Or his email. Or you could sendhimmine. Anything.”
“I truly understand,” she said. “But we are not allowed to share or forward guest information. Our clientele pays for discretion. I’m very sorry.”
My heart sank. I whispered, “Okay… thanks,” and hung up before I started crying again.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand and finally hit Bree’s name. She answered on the first ring.
“Girl, where the hell you been? I been texting all?—”
“I’m pregnant.”
She sat in silence on the other end of the phone and it was killing me.
“…with WHO?”
I sank onto my couch, hands shaking. “The… the resort…Cal?—”
“Resort—oh SHIT. The bathroom dude? The rich one with the dick that?—”
“YES, Bree. Him.”
She went quiet again. “Okay. Okay. You know what? We can fix this. Call the resort. Tell them it’s urgent. Tell them?—”
“I already did,” I whispered.
“And?”
“They said they don’t give out guest information. Privacy policy. No exceptions.”
“So… you don’t even know his last name?”
