It’s small. It might be too much. It might be not enough. She might roll her eyes. She might cry. She might text me. She might not.
But at least she’ll know I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.
seven
. . .
Natalie
I wakeup in my childhood bedroom and for three whole seconds, my brain does that blissful, blank thing where it doesn’t remember anything bad. Then the word slams into me like a truck.
Pregnant.
I blink up at the ceiling, at the faint glow-in-the-dark stars my fourteen-year-old self stuck up there with a plan that included UCLA, writing TV shows, and zero babies.
The walls are still the same soft lavender I begged my mom to let me paint them. My old bookshelf is still crammed with dog-eared YA paperbacks, SAT prep books I pretended to study, and a row of yearbooks with my awkward braces era immortalized in glossy color. It’s like the room is frozen in time, preserved in case I ever needed to crawl back into it and hide away from the grown up world.
Apparently I did.
I press my hand to my stomach. Still flat. Still thesame as yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Twelve weeks, Dr. Patel said. Heading into the second trimester.
How did I not notice?
I drag my hand away and reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up with the time and a handful of notifications. Group texts from the writers’ group. A text from my dad.
Dad
Good morning, kiddo. Glad you’re feeling better. Let me know if you need anything.
I sent a text last night, told him I was fine, that the doctor said it was just low blood sugar. Made up something about stress and not eating enough. He didn’t even question it.
I scroll past his message and land on one from a number I just added but already know by heart.
Jake
Hope you’re doing okay. Just a heads up that a grocery delivery is headed your way this morning.
I stare at the message for a long beat. Jake Reyes sent me groceries.
A tiny part of my chest warms at that and I immediately smother it. But the groceries are going to my apartment. Where I’m not. Which means I should probably get up and head home before everything melts on my doorstep.
The smell of coffee drifts under the bedroom door, warm and familiar. There’s the faint sizzle of bacon in a pan, thelow murmur of the morning news from the living room. My stomach growls like it’s never been fed. Which is wild, because I haven’t wanted to eat in days. Weeks. I thought it was stress.
I roll out of bed and pad down the hall in an oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. The photos on the wall are a walk down memory lane. One of me missing my front teeth, me holding a certificate from winning my first spelling bee, and me and mom on my tenth birthday at the beach, sunburned and grinning. It feels like walking through a museum of a girl who had no idea how complicated her life would get.
Mom’s at the stove when I walk in, spatula in hand, steady and unflustered, already making breakfast.
“Morning,” I say, my voice rough.
She looks over her shoulder and gives me that soft, assessing mom smile that somehow does not miss a single detail. “Good morning, sweetie,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
I sink into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Tired,” I say. “Confused. Pregnant.”
One corner of her mouth lifts. “I meant physically. Any nausea? Cramping? Headaches? Or are we venturing into monster hunger phase yet?”
“No nausea,” I say slowly. “Definitely hungry. Which is weird. I feel like I haven’t wanted to eat anything in forever.”
“That’s good.” She turns back to the stove, gives the pan a practiced flick. “Second trimester usually brings your appetite back. Scrambled eggs okay? With toast and bacon?”
