Bailey
The alarm goes off at 5:30 AM, and I don't even flinch anymore.
My hand shoots out automatically, silencing it before the second beep. Shower. Uniform. Anti-nausea crackers that barely help. The routine is so ingrained now I could do it in my sleep.
Maybe I am doing it in my sleep. The days blur together.
I catch my reflection in Gretchen's bathroom mirror. Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Hair pulled back in the same ponytail I've worn for three weeks straight. My jeans barely button—I'll need to size up soon, but that requires money I don't have.
Thirteen weeks pregnant. Twenty-seven days working at Luna's Coffee. Four weeks since Daniel ended what we had.
The numbers are how I measure time now.
I throw up twice before my shift starts.
"You okay?" Gretchen calls through the bathroom door.
"Fine," I lie.
I'm not fine. But I'm surviving. And sometimes that's the same thing.
***
The morning rush at Luna's is brutal as always.
"Tall latte, two pumps vanilla!"
"Grande americano, extra shot!"
"Medium cappuccino—wait, you call it grande here?"
I move through the motions automatically. Steam wand hissing. Register beeping. The same dozen drinks in endless rotation.
Maya covers the register while I make drinks. She's gotten good at reading when I need a bathroom break, stepping in seamlessly when I bolt for the back.
"You okay?" she asks when I return, pale and shaking.
"I'm fine."
"You're really not." She hands me a water bottle. "Ross says take fifteen instead of ten."
"I don't need—"
"Yes you do. Go sit."
I sink into the chair in the back room, sipping water, hand pressed against my stomach. The slight curve is impossible to ignore now. Soon I'll have to tell Ross. Get maternity clothes. Figure out what happens when I can't do this anymore.
One problem at a time.
A regular customer who comes in every morning at 8:15 leaves a twenty-dollar tip with a note:Hang in there, sweetheart.
I stare at the bill, throat tight. Strangers are kinder than the man who said he cared about me.
By the end of my shift, I've made $43.28 in tips. A good day.
I check my bank account on the subway ride back: $1,847.32.
Rent was due. I'm bleeding money.
