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Of course, when I wake up in the morning, he’s gone. There’s no trace that the man was ever here. If it weren’t for the delicious ache in my bones and the patches of red on my skin from where his stubble rubbed against me, I could almost imagine it had been nothing but a beautiful dream.

I knew it would never be anything more than one night. How could it be? Our lives are moving in completely different directions. But even knowing that, it does nothing to soothe the ache in my chest or the sense of loss I feel with him gone.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling, flashes of the night moving through my brain like a movie I can pause on all the best parts.

My lips turn up into a smile. Yeah, it sucks that it’s over, but at least we had last night. Something tells me it’s one I’ll never forget.

6

Emma

Eight Weeks later

I stare at the stick in my hand and feel myself sway on my feet.

“Fuck.”

Six tests, and all of them confirm what I already knew but had hoped I was wrong about. I’m pregnant.

I toss the pregnancy test on the counter with the others before I lean over the sink and throw up. I retch until there is nothing left inside me, not that there was much in there to begin with. If the achy breasts and lack of period hadn’t given me pause, the almost violent morning sickness that started last week sealed my fate.

I splash cold water on my face and look up at my reflection. I look pale and exhausted, both of which are accurate.

“How the hell can this be happening?” I mutter. I mean, sure, I understand the whole birds and the bees thing after learning the hard way how easy it is to fall pregnant from having sex just once. But we used condoms, dammit, and I’m on the pill. What is the fucking point in using contraception if it doesn’t bloody work?

“I probably got pregnant just looking at his stupid giant dick. I bet it has super sperm that renders contraception useless.”

My stomach pitches once more, but a few deep breaths are enough to steady me.

I shake my head at the judgey look on my reflection’s face. I know she’s silently blaming me. If I’d just kept my legs closed, none of this would have happened. Ugh, I should have joined a nunnery or something. I don’t think I have it in me to do this all over again.

I sit on the toilet seat and bow my head, thinking of everything to come. My body will turn on me, only this time it won’t bounce back half as well as it did when I had youth on my side. The labour, which was traumatic in itself, and then the C-section that followed, where they sliced into me before I was properly numb because the babies were in trouble.

It took years for me to even think back on that day and not throw up.

Afterwards, trying to heal, especially with twins, was hard. Dan was working to make ends meet, so most of it fell to me. Okay, all of it fell to me. Looking back, it’s easy to see that even before he made his money, he had already set himself up as the fun dad, while I was the one who set the rules and dished out punishment when they broke them.

And let’s not talk about the sleep deprivation and the permanent brain fog from being exhausted twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Neither of my babies slept through the night until they went to school. Five years of cat naps nearly killed me, and now I’d have to do it all over again.

Before I have a mental breakdown, I pull out my phone and dial the doctor. Someone must take pity on me because I get an appointment for this afternoon. Now all I need to do is get there without puking, which will be a task in itself.

I take my time showering and dressing. Any sudden movement seems to set me off. I pack a bottle of water and a cereal bar in my bag before I head out. I don’t have it in me to walk, so I make my way to the bus stop at the end of the street.

I let my eyes drift closed, the cool breeze helping stave off the nausea. I try to convince myself that the tests are wrong. That I’ll go to the doctor, and she’ll say it’s just a bunch of false positives, which can happen sometimes. I mean, six false positives are not unheard of, right?

“God, I’m screwed.”

My shoulders slump in defeat. I feel so disappointed in myself. I’ve given my kids one more reason to dislike me, and God, Lick is going to hate me. That’s assuming I can find him, of course. I know nothing about the guy other than he’s in a band. This is bad. This is so fucking bad. God, I must have pissed someone off in a previous life.

The bus pulls in, tugging me out of my misery. I pay with my phone before taking one of the middle seats. It’s relatively quiet right now, most people being at work, but come rush hour, people will be packed in this thing like sardines in a tin can. That is not something I’ll be able to handle right now, so I hope the appointment doesn’t last long.

The bus drops me off at the end of the road. I walk up to the doctors, who are at the top of a hill, and curse the asshole who thought it was a good idea to stick it all the way up here. By the time I get to the top, I’m hot, sweaty, and in a foul mood.

Thankfully, I don’t have to wait for a million years. When I see the doctor, though, I’m reminded just how much things have changed since I was last pregnant.

“We don’t do a pregnancy test unless there has been a cause for concern, like bleeding or cramping. Home tests are 99% percent reliable⁠—”

“Like condoms and the contraceptive pill?” I snark back, but she carries on as if she didn’t hear me.