It all loops through my head on a slow, relentless reel.
The way I melted into him.
Again.
The man is like an addiction I have no idea how to beat.
Me: Need advice. Bakery?
Callie: We got you, girl.
Sloane: Coffee and a dirty hustler will be waiting.
Lilah: Leaving in fifteen.
Me: You’re all the best.
Knowing my girls have my back steadies me enough to move through my normal routine. By the time I push through the door of Lakeshore Sweets an hour later, my nerves are frayed to the breaking point. The comforting scent of sugar and cinnamon usually wraps around me like a warm blanket.
Today, it’s too sweet.
Too heavy.
Almost as if the air itself is closing in on me.
Callie waves me toward the corner table with a warm smile. Lilah glows, her bump straining against a cozy sweater, happiness radiating off her. Sloane eyes me over the rim of her mug, wearing that look she gets when she’s trying to dissect my mood and figure out how to fix it. She’s protective, fierce, and unapologetically loyal.
A few minutes later, Callie sets a steaming mug in front of me. I wrap my hands around it, desperate for something to steady my nerves. The bitter scent of espresso hits my nose, and nausea rolls through my belly. I jerk back, setting the cup down a little too quickly. The clatter makes all three women look up at once.
“Is something wrong with the coffee?” Callie asks with a frown.
“No.” The reply scrapes out as I push the mug away. “It just hit me wrong.”
Fatigue spreads through me. It’s the kind sleep can’t fix. Everything that’s happened lately feels heavier by the day, seeping into every part of my life. My sleep, my mood, even the pit that’s settled at the bottom of my stomach.
Lilah’s light laugh cuts through the quiet. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant? During my first trimester, coffee made me nauseous. I couldn’t stand the smell of it.”
Her question lands like a sucker punch.
Pregnant?
No way.
Even the thought is ridiculous.
My brain scrambles for another explanation. Bad fish, stress—anything that makes sense. Half the time I barely eat, and sleep is hit-or-miss. Of course I’d feel off.
I can’t be pregnant.
I just can’t be.
Except… I start counting backward, tracking weeks in my head, each one slipping like sand through my fingers. The numbers blur. Every date I land on feels wrong. My stomach twists, turning into more of a cramp.
No.
No.
No.
