The room spins, my stomach lurches, and I’m back on the floor, face pressed against cold tile, seriously recounting every single move I’ve made this last week that led me here.
The kiss.
Donovan's hands in my hair.
The way he steely gray eyes turned into liquid fire when they trailed to my mouth.
"Stupid," I mutter to the tile. "So stupid."
My stomach churns again, and I barely make it to the toilet before everything comes up.
When I'm finally empty—or as empty as I'm going to get—I sit back against the tub and try to remember the last time I felt normal.
It's been weeks.
The exhaustion. The randomnausea.
The weird emotional volatility where I cried last Tuesday because the coffee machine was broken.
I blamed it on stress.
New job. New city. New everything.
But now, sitting here on my bathroom floor with my head spinning and my stomach in revolt, a different possibility creeps in.
A possibility that makes my blood run cold.
My period.
When was my last period?
I do the mental math, counting back through May, through Miami, through—
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no, no."
It was before Miami. Early May, definitely. Which means...
"Fuck." The word echoes in my tiny bathroom. "FUCK."
I lunge for my phone on the counter, frantically pulling up my period tracker app with shaking hands.
Last period: May 4th.
Today: June 14th.
Six weeks.
I'm two weeks late.
"No." I'm shaking now, full-body tremors that have nothing to do with being sick. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."
My original plan—survive the week without thinking about Donovan—has officially been replaced by a new, more urgent goal…
Find out the improbable—no, the impossible…
Find out if I'm pregnant before I completely lose my mind.
I call Sasha.
