Page 48 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

When I finally walk back in and look down, the word PREGNANT is staring back at me in a stark, digital font that feels like a death sentence.

I’m on the pill. I’ve been on it for years, a ritual as mundane as brushing my teeth. But three weeks ago—the same week Nate’s betrayal imploded my life—I’d been hit with a brutal stomach flu. Two days of violent illness and the kind of high fever that leaves you delirious. Between the vomiting and the sheer emotional exhaustion of catching Nate in our bed with a stranger, the efficacy of my birth control must have plummeted to zero.

And now, the math of my life has been irrevocably altered.

Panic is a cold, rising tide. I’m a Pediatric Child Life Specialist; I know exactly what this means. I know the milestones, the risks, and the sheer weight of a human life. I’m not even sure if I’m ready to be a mom.

I look at my reflection, my skin pale and my eyes wide with terror. I have dinner at seven.

I’ve spent years helping children face their biggest fears with a smile and a sticker, and yet I don’t know how to fix this. The woman staring back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like someone who should be making life-altering decisions before dinner.

My hair is still pulled into a loose hospital bun, my mascara smudged faintly under my eyes from the long shift, my face pale in the unforgiving bathroom light. The word on that plastic stick burns into my brain every time I blink.

I grip the edge of the sink and force myself to breathe slowly through my nose.

This changes everything.

Not just my life. Nathan’s too. A sharp pulse of fear cuts through the panic. Nate’s voice echoes again in my head, smug and threatening, promising he can make life difficult for anyone he wants.

I drag both hands down my face and stare at the test again like it might change its mind if I glare hard enough. It doesn’t. The word stays there, calm and digital and completely indifferent to my crisis.

Fine.

If I’m going to detonate my own life tonight, I might as well do it cleanly.

Nathan deserves to know.

The thought settles into something solid enough to move with. I grab the test, wrap it in tissue, and shove it deep into the bathroom trash before turning the shower on full blast.

The hot water pounds against my shoulders while I stand there longer than necessary, trying to quiet the storm inside my head. I wash my hair twice, scrub my skin harder than usual, and lean my forehead against the tile for a moment before forcing myself upright.

Dinner.

Tell him the truth.

Then deal with whatever happens next.

By the time I step out and dry my hair, my hands have stopped shaking.

I choose a simple black dress from the closet and pull it on without overthinking it. Light makeup. Small earrings. Shoes that won’t trip me if my knees decide to betray me halfway through the evening.

At six fifty-eight, the doorbell rings.

I stand still for a second, staring at the door like it might disappear if I wait long enough. Then I square my shoulders and open it.

Nathan Clarke fills the doorway.

He’s wearing dark slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, the collar open just enough to show the line of his throat. His hair is still slightly damp, like he showered not long ago, and the faint scent of something expensive and clean drifts into the hallway.

He looks like a walking argument against good decision making.

For a moment I just stare at him. Every ridiculous Greek statue I’ve ever seen suddenly makes sense.

Nathan’s mouth curves slowly when he notices my expression. “Good evening to you too.”

I blink and step aside quickly. “Sorry. Hi.”

His eyes move over me once, warm and approving in a way that makes my pulse stumble. “You look beautiful.”