The elevator reaches the lobby. The doors open onto marble floors and elegant lighting and a doorman who nods politely as I pass.
I walk through the building in a daze. Push through the revolving doors into the cool evening air.
My car is parked half a block away. I don't remember the walk. Don't remember unlocking it. Don't remember starting the engine.
I just drive.
Away from the penthouse. Away from Daniel. Away from the life I thought we were building together.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I ignore it.
It buzzes again. And again.
At a red light, I glance down. Three texts from Gretchen.
How did it go?
Bay?
Are you okay?
No. I'm not okay.
I'll never be okay again.
The light turns green. I drive to Gretchen's apartment because I can't go home. Can't face being alone in the space where I imagined Daniel might eventually stay over, where I pictured us navigating this pregnancy together.
I pull into her parking lot and call her. My voice doesn't work.
"Bay? What's wrong?"
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except a sob.
"I'm coming down. Stay there."
Twenty seconds later, she's sliding into my passenger seat, still in pajamas, her face creased with sleep and concern.
"Bay." Her voice is soft. "Come on. Let's get you inside."
She guides me upstairs like I'm made of glass. Her apartment smells like lavender and coffee—normal things, safe things.
I sink onto her couch, and that's when it all breaks.
He's gone. We're over.
And I never got to tell him about the baby.
The sob tears out of my chest before I can stop it. Then another. And another.
Gretchen's arms wrap around me, and I collapse into her, crying like I haven't cried since I was a child.
"I've got you," she murmurs. "I'm here."
But she doesn't have me. Nobody does.
I'm completely, utterly alone.
And I have no idea how I'm going to survive this.
