Black lace, still damp, wrinkled mess.
I pulled it on, snatched my bag, went to the door, hand on the handle.
I stood a moment, didn't look back, then pushed out and left.
I quit the club job.
Went to Maria the next day, told her I was done.
After that, I got work at a coffee shop. That night's earnings covered some interest; the fat guy gave me three more months.
Life settled back—early rises, shifts, calls to Sophie, sleep.
Day after day.
I thought I could forget that night, forget him, forget those deep brown eyes.
But I couldn't.
Especially not in the coffee shop bathroom, puking my guts out over the toilet.
"Four weeks pregnant."
The doctor's voice stayed calm.
I sat in the exam room, staring at the test results, mind blank.
Four weeks.
From that night I thought was just an accident, impulsive payback.
Now it was a real life.
My hand pressed my stomach.
Still flat, nothing showing. But I knew a tiny life grew there.
Damn, so that night I should've at least made him wrap it.
"Want some vitamins?" the doctor asked. "Or..."
She trailed off.
I should've aborted.
I could barely feed myself; how could I raise a kid? And the father—that guy with the insulting note—didn't know, wouldn't care.
But I couldn't say it.
"I'll think about it." My voice rasped.
Outside the hospital, sun blinded me.
I looked down, fingers clenching the paper.
What now?
I didn't know.
