Voicemail.
Riley.
Voicemail.
"Of course," I say to my empty bathroom. "Of course you're both unavailable during my actual crisis."
I try to stand, planning to walk to the drugstore myself, but another wave of nausea hits and I'm back on the floor, dry-heaving into the toilet because there's nothing left to throw up.
When it passes, I just sit there, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, trying to breathe.
Pregnant.
I might be pregnant.
With Donovan Titan’s baby.
My boss's baby.
The CEO of Titan Industries' baby.
"I'm going to throw up again," I moan, and then I do.
By seven AM, I've managed to drag myself off the bathroom floor and into the shower, where I stand under lukewarm water—because the hot water still doesn't work properly—trying to formulate a new plan.
Goal: Get a pregnancy test. Find out for sure.
Obstacle: Can barely stand without feeling like I'm going to pass out.
I'm pulling on clothes—yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt because anything else feels impossible right now—when there's a knock at my door.
"Emma? It's Carmen. I brought victory bagels. They’re to celebrate you absolutely wowing Richard Castellano last night. Girl, you killed it!”
Oh God.
Carmen.
I can't face Carmen right now. Not when I'm pretty sure I'm about to have abreakdown.
"Just a second!" I call out, then immediately regret it because my voice sounds strangled.
Another knock, more insistent this time. "Emma, are you okay? You sound weird."
"I'm fine! Just—"
But she's already pushing open the door with a concerned expression and a bag of bagels. “Did you know your door is unlocked?” She takes one look at me, immediately taking in my appearance. “Whoa. Are you green? It’s…gnarly.”
"Thanks. That's exactly what every girl wants to hear."
"I'm serious." She sets the bagels on my non-existent counter. "You're pale. And you're sweating. Are you sick?"
"Maybe." I sink onto my air mattress, my plan to get to the drugstore completely derailed. "I've been throwing up all morning."
Carmen's expression shifts from concerned to alarmed. "All morning? Emma, you need to see a doctor."
"It's probably just a stomach bug."
"Or food poisoning. Or—" She stops, studying me with those sharp analytical eyes that make her excellent at her job. "When was your last period?"
