But as I sit on the cold tile floor, breathing hard and trying not to throw up again, a different possibility starts forming in my mind.
A possibility that feels impossible and terrifying and completely, devastatinglyplausible.
"Emma?" Sasha's knocking on the door. "Let us in."
I unlock the door with shaking hands, and they both crowd into my tiny bathroom, brows furrowed.
"How long have you been sick?" Riley asks, already shifting into her practical problem-solving mode.
"A week. Maybe a little more." I close my eyes. "I thought it was stress."
"Could be stress," Sasha says, but her voice is careful. "Or..."
"Don’t. Don't say it."
"Emma." Riley crouches down next to me. "When was your last period?"
I try to remember.
It was before Miami, definitely.
Early May, maybe? But I've never been super regular, especially when I'm stressed.
Then I remember….
“We used a condom,” I blurt out, hand clasping over my heart. “We’re good. I’m good.”
Sasha eyes me warily, but then nods. “Alright, then, let’s get you some Pepto and some water to wash it down with. No use being sick on your first day of work.”
I swallow, nodding fast. “Right.”
The plane touches down at JFK just after noon, the jolt shaking me hard enough to slosh my stomach.
I immediately regret every eating decision that led me to this moment.
Not the job—that’s still in the “pinch me, I can’t believe this is real” category.
No, I regret the airport turkey sandwich I decided to eat thirty minutes before takeoff.
Because now it’s staging a violent coup in my digestivesystem.
“Are you okay?” the woman next to me asks as I white-knuckle the armrests, plastering on a smile that’s about as convincing as a TSA-friendly shampoo bottle.
“Fine,” I grit out. “Totally fine. Love flying. Love it so much.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
The second the seatbelt sign dings off, I’m on my feet and power-walking toward the restroom. A few deep breaths over the sink later, I decide that I am definitely not dying.
Just stressed, dehydrated, and running purely on caffeine and anxiety.
Perfect combo for first impressions.
By the time I collect my bags at baggage claim, I’m exhausted but buzzing with adrenaline.
New York thrums like a steady beat outside the terminal—honking horns, shouting cab drivers, humidity so thick it feels personal.
I drag my suitcase toward the exit and remind myself why I’m here.
