“Splurging isn’t the only thing you did, apparently. Who was he?”
My stomach muscles contract. An image of Travis’ golden skin, incredible seafoam eyes, and that perfect mouth pops into my head.
Memories play like a slideshow, all the way from the moment I spotted the instant he took a seat at the bar, before Kandace pointed him out, to the elevator, eating together, and his strong, lean body pressed against mine in his hotel suite.
“He’s not important,” I say, sitting up as the final memory of waking up alone in his bed plays out.
Kandace starts to say something but my phone’s timer interrupts.
“Time to check.” My voice sounds like what I imagine an executioner would say to a prisoner they’re taking on their final walk.
Kandace tells me encouraging words as I walk all of ten steps from my bedroom to the bathroom. My eyes land on the pink and white stick as soon as I push the door open.
My mouth falls ajar, eyes go wide, and the consequences of my one-night stand slap me in the face.
“What does it say?” Kandace’s voice blends in with my own spiraling questions.
How could I let this happen?
What am I going to do?
How am I supposed to support a kid? I just lost my job!
Where’s the father?
I wag my head and step out of the bathroom again. My left shoulder starts tingling, and I reach up, absentmindedly rubbing it.
The urge to hide underneath the covers until all of this goes away overcomes me.
“I’m going to be a mom,” I blurt out.
On the other end, Kandace gasps. I barely hear it because I’m too busy asking myself how can I be a mom when I don’t even have one?
Or a dad, for that matter.
Both of my parents are gone.
I rub my shoulder harder.
One night of fun landed me in the biggest mess of my adult life.
“You know you’re not alone.”
Kandace’s comment reaches me but doesn’t stick. It gets lost in the uncertainty that hovers like a cloud that swallows up the peak of a mountain. Similar to that mountain peak I’m out on my own, left to fend for myself. Now, I have a whole other life growing inside of me to think about.
“I used to joke,” I finally say, “that I was one of the unluckiest people in the world.”
“I hated when you would say that,” my best friend replies.
A laugh, dry and brittle pierces my lips.
She’s one of the reasons I stopped telling that joke. That, and I’d read a book on manifestation four years ago, when I was twenty-two, that convinced me to stop ‘claiming’ bad luck.
Though, moments like right now, it’s hard not to do.
“What if it wasn’t a joke?” I ask. “Who else loses their job and finds out they’re pregnant on the same damn day?”
“Don’t even go there. You’re not alone,” she repeats. “You have me.”
