7
3 weeks later
W hen the universe decides to screw you over, it really puts its back into it.
Sore boobs, cramps, a back that feels like it’s auditioning for a horror flick, and exhaustion—that’s my usual rodeo with irregular periods. But the nausea? The dry heaving?
That’s something, I tell you.
Amelia and I have gotten close lately. She’s a real gem, that one. So adorable, it’s almost sickening. She reassured me over the phone, saying she’s had similar symptoms before with a stomach bug. If she can survive it, so can I. Besides, she’s got that nurturing vibe down to an art form. I take her word for it, because why not? It’s easier than thinking I might be dying.
Now I’m standing in the kitchen, staring at the half-empty fridge, contemplating if I have the energy to make myself some tea. Spoiler: I don’t. Just as I’m about to give up on life and crawl back to bed, my phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Isla.
Isla: Coming over, and I’m bringing Callie with me. She needs some Midge cuddles.
A smile tugs at my lips, despite the swirling stomach rebellion. Callie’s adorable, all chubby cheeks and those massive, judgmental baby eyes. She’s pure serotonin. Sure, I might not win any awards for World’s Best Babysitter—I’m more of a “try not to swear too much around the tiny humans” kind of carer—but I’ve got a soft spot for little kids. Still, the walking plague over here probably shouldn’t risk it. Last thing I need is to zombify Isla’s kid.
Me: Probably not a good idea. Think I’ve caught a stomach bug. I’ve been vomiting all morning.
Isla: Gross. How’d you manage that?
Me: Don’t know, dude. But if I do have it, I think I’m contagious. I don’t want you or little Cal turning into zombies.
Isla: Oh shush, it’s not like I’m gonna be touching your vomit or poo. And I doubt you have a bug.
Me: Gross.
Isla: Yup! See you soon! I’ll bring you some goodies xx
Of course, she doesn’t listen. Moments later, Isla barges in, carrying Callie in her capsule and a brown Woolies bag in her other hand. She kicks the door shut behind her with a triumphant look on her face.
“Hey, sicko. How are you feeling?” she says, unloading the bag—Hydralytes, Saladas, and the canned chicken broth soup.
“Like shit. I told you to stay away.” I gesture to everything on the bench. “Why?”
“Because I love you,” she quips. “Now, spill. When did this all start?”
“A few days ago. Been cramping and hurling like my body’s auditioning for The Exorcist. ”
“Nice,” she says, amused. “All day or just mornings?”
“Both. Sometimes.” I throw my hands up. “I don’t know! Why all the questions? You taking notes for a thesis or something?”
“Hush! I’m just playing doctor,” she says with a wink.
“Fever?”
“No.”
“Appetite?”
“Tried toast this morning. My stomach said, ‘Hell no,’ and threw it right back up. Haven’t risked it since.” She laughs, a bright, obnoxious sound that somehow doesn’t make me want to murder her. “Who needs a doctor when I’ve got you?”
“Well, technically, I am a doctor,” she says, smugly adjusting Callie’s blanket.
“For animals.”
She waves it off like it’s semantics. “Same difference. Anyway, I got you soup. That vile organic stuff you like. You’re welcome.”
“Vile? They’re healthy.”
“Sure, Jan.” She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. Moments later, she’s back, holding a bowl wrapped in a tea towel. Steam rolls up, carrying the smell of chicken and spices, and—oh, fuck no.
“Bon appétit,” she says, placing it in front of me with all the reverence of a ma?tre d’.
“Yeah, thanks, Mum,” I mutter, gingerly taking the bowl. Her smug chuckle barely registers before the smell fully hits me.
Chicken. Spices. Death.
My stomach riots, flipping so hard I gag, barely managing to shove the bowl onto the table before bolting for the sink. Acid and saliva burn their way up, and the kitchen fills with the unholy sounds of my dry heaving. So gross. When I finally rinse out my mouth and stagger back, Isla’s leaning on the counter, arms crossed, head tilted. “That bad?”
“No fucking clue.” I collapse onto the couch. “Whatever it is, I’m not eating it.” Her eyes narrow slightly, the wheels in her head clearly spinning. “What now?”
She hesitates, then shrugs. “Alright, don’t freak out, but hear me out… Should you… maybe take a pregnancy test?”
The room goes silent. I blink rapidly at her. “What? Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know! Just ruling things out,” she says, hands up in mock surrender. She must be out of her mind. There is no way. But the seed of doubt is planted, and as much as I want to laugh it off, I feel heat creeping up my neck.
I start laughing, the sound more forced than I’d like. “Yeah, no. Not happening.”
“Okay, fine. Out of curiosity, when was the last time you had sex?”
Her question sucker-punches me, dragging my brain straight back to that night with Harrison. My heart stumbles. The heat of his skin, his hands on me, the way he looked at me—damn it. No. I took the pill. I cannot be pregnant.
That stuff works. It worked for Alana back in year twelve, when she had sex with her boyfriend for the first time, and the condom broke. She was a wreck, crying in the bathroom stall next to mine, but the pill did its job, and she was fine. It worked for Dianne, one of my clients at the salon. She told me the story while I touched up her roots, about the wild night she had after her divorce party, the condom mishap with the stranger she barely remembered, and how she didn’t breathe easy until her period came a month later.
So yeah, it works. I am not pregnant. Absolutely not.
But why does my chest feel tight, and why can’t I seem to look Isla in the eye?
“Seriously, Isla?”
“Yes, seriously. We’re adults. Spill.”
Sighing, I slump into the cushions like they’ll swallow me whole. “A few weeks ago. Maybe.”
Her face lights up like it’s Christmas. “Wait. With who? Bitch, how have you not told me? We tell each other everything .”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
My teeth sink into my lip. No shame, right? Except swearing off him for so long only to fall face-first into his lap—is peak irony. Damn his charm. Damn his stupidly perfect everything.
“Harrison.”
“Get absolutely fucked! No way?” she exclaims, a little too loud, making Callie stir. She picks her up, holding her close while bouncing her gently. I try not to let the sight twist my gut.
“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not! Just... shocked. Actually, no. Not shocked at all.” Isla narrows her eyes with a knowing look. “It’s about time, honestly.” Sure, whatever.
“Anyway,” I wave her off, trying to erase the thought, “I’m not pregnant.”
Isla holds up a hand, still cradling Callie. “Hold on. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact you fucked Harrison.”
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpan, heat crawling up my neck.
“When was it? Where?!” Isla leans forward, grinning like a kid on Christmas. I roll my eyes.
“That night we were at yours for pizza. He drove me home.”
“Yeah? And?”
“We fucked in his car.”
Isla’s eyes pop. “Holy fuck! What was it like?”
“Intense. Like really intense, Isla. Rough, but the good kind. I’ve never been fucked like that. I’m talking leg-shaking orgasm. I squirted on him. You know me—when have I ever told you I squirted on a guy’s dick?” I let it sink in, watching her eyes widen. “The man knows how to fuck, is all I’m saying.”
Isla stares at me. “Christ almighty! That’s wild.”
“Very wild. But it won’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
“Because… Isla, no. That was a one-time thing, to get rid of whatever sexual tension was there.”
“Did you use a condom?” Isla studies me for a moment. “Well, judging by the look on your face, I’m going to take that as a no,” she says, eyes narrowing.
I glance away, the knot in my stomach tightening. “No, we didn’t,” I admit. “But I took the morning-after pill. I went before work the next morning.” I groan, rubbing my temples. “It was mortifying. The woman who served me knows my dad. Fantastic.”
Isla sighs, shaking her head. “Alright, so you took the pill. Have you gotten your period yet?”
I hesitate, my heart racing. “They’re irregular, Isla. You know that.”
“I still think you should take a test.”
“No. The pill works. I’ll get my period any day now, probably.”
Isla tilts her head, unconvinced. “Maybe, but did you know the morning-after pill isn’t one hundred percent? It’s about eighty-five percent effective if taken within twenty-four hours. And it’s less effective if you were ovulating when you—”
“I wasn’t ovulating!” I cut her off. “And anyway, my chances are so slim. PCOS, low egg count—remember?”
“But there’s always a chance.”
“Very slim,” I counter.
“Maybe not so slim,” she says quietly. My mind races, flashing through the last few weeks, tripping over memories I’d rather forget. My stomach flips at the thought—not from desire this time. Pregnancy? That has never felt like a real possibility for me.
Irregular periods, screwed-up ovulation—same old shit. I ditched the pill a few months ago because I couldn’t stand the mood swings, fatigue, and weight gain. Did it fix anything? Of course not. My periods are still all over the place. My doctor at the time suggested that I’d probably need to freeze my eggs because my count’s so low.
Just like my mother. One of the two things I got from her: a low egg count and my blue eyes. Now I’m sitting here, wondering if I’ve just royally screwed myself over.
“Please, Isla. This is me we’re talking about. Imogen Whitley, the girl with the obstinate ovaries.”
“I think you should take a test, Imogen.” Isla pulls out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering some. Our pharmacy does house deliveries, so I’m getting a few,” she says, typing away like a woman on a mission.
“Oh, God, this is getting way too real,” I mutter. “Wait. Why are you ordering them? We could just go out and get one.”
“And leave you now? Like this? Not a chance. It’ll take too long, and I’ve got Callie with me. They’ll be here in fifteen.” I pace the room, my mind spinning—Harrison, the last few weeks, and the sickening thought that my body might betray me in the one way I never saw coming.
In the bathroom, I’m practically hopping from foot to foot. Isla made me chug a whole glass of water, and now I’m busting to pee.
She’s lining up the tests like she’s preparing for some military operation. “Did you really need to buy all of these?” I pick up a box, squinting at the words Triple Check plus Date.
“Yes. One digital, two normal. You know, just in case,” Isla says, handing me the first test. “It’s better to have too many than not enough.”
I nod, already regretting everything. I crinkle the packaging, stalling, trying to delay what’s coming. Isla shoves one in my hand. “Is this the one that tells you straight up?”
“No. We’ll do the pink one first, then the blue digital to confirm,” Isla says.
The sweat’s already trickling down my temples, making me want to vomit. My hands won’t stop shaking, but I force myself to follow the instructions. Isla says she’s going to step out, then comes back with little Callie in her arms.
“Want me to wait outside for you?”
“No! I need you here.” I practically choke on the words. “I’m… scared.”
“It’s okay, Midge. That’s normal,” she says, her voice soft. “It’s a big deal, but it could be negative. Then it really is just some crappy stomach bug.”
“What if it’s positive?” I whisper, the question heavy in my chest.
“We’ll deal with that, if it happens.” Isla reassures me. “One step at a time.”
I try to focus on her words, but a sinking feeling settles in my chest. I know the chances are high. Unprotected sex, no condom... I’m just choosing to ignore it for now, pretending it’s not happening. I force a shaky breath as I unwrap the test. The moment stretches on, endless. Isla stays close, her silent presence grounding me, but I can barely breathe. The instructions blur in front of my eyes, but I push through and do what I need to. I set the stick down on the bench.
Five minutes pass… then ten.
“I can’t look,” I mutter. “You look at it, please. Tell me.”
She takes it gently, eyes fixed on the small window where the result is supposed to show. Time slows. A thought flashes—what if I want it to be positive? The realisation hits hard, like a punch to the gut. I glance at Isla. Her face is unreadable.
“What? Is it negative? It is, isn’t it?”
Isla shakes her head, but I can’t tell if it’s a confirmation or not. I snap, grabbing the test from her hand. A faint cross.
I rip the box open, eyes scanning.
Positive. Positive. Oh, fuck.
I exhale, like I’ve been holding my breath forever. I look at Isla, dazed. “It’s… positive. It’s…” My words fizzle out, the weight of it hitting me all at once.
“I know, Midge.”
My insides turn upside down—fear, shock, and a strange flicker of something else. Hope? But the line’s faint. “Should I do another one?”
“You can,” Isla says, rubbing my back. “But give it a minute. Drink some more water and try the digital one.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the couch, staring at the two tests like they’re about to swallow me whole. One has a cross, the other says Pregnant 2-3 Weeks . My stomach tightens, nausea creeping in.
A baby. My baby.
The words feel foreign, heavy, like they don’t belong to me. Can I even do this? Am I capable? I’ve never had that kind of love... how the hell do I raise a kid without it? The fear hits like a punch. The doubt, the panic, the what the hell do I do now —they all crash over me. My vision blurs as tears spill down my face.
“Crap, Isla,” I choke out. “I’m scared. What if… What if I’m a shit mum? What if I can’t do this? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” Isla’s hand finds mine, pulling me into her without a word. I can’t breathe, but she’s there, and somehow, that makes it a little easier.
“Hey, listen,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. There are options.”
The word hangs in the air—options. Abortion. My stomach twists. No. I can’t go there. Even through the storm of panic thrumming in my chest, there’s a quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering that maybe this happened for a reason.
It feels surreal, almost cruel. Doctors told me it wouldn’t happen—that I might need to freeze my eggs if I ever wanted a chance. And now, here I am, staring down at these two tests. I sniffle, wiping at my damp cheeks as I try to make sense of it all. Of course, this is what happens when you’re reckless, but I never thought I’d actually end up here. Pregnant.
“No. I think… I think I want to keep it,” I say quietly.
“It’s a lot, I know. But you don’t have to do this alone. I’ll be here for you every step of the way.” Her words feel like a lifeline, grounding me, until her expression shifts. A flicker of hesitation darkens her eyes. “Harrison needs to know.”
My chest tightens, the fragile calm I’d just found splintering. “What?” I whisper.
“I know this is overwhelming, and the idea of telling him is terrifying. But he deserves to know, Midge. This isn’t something you can keep from him.” She searches my face, waiting for a reaction.
“What if he freaks out? What if he doesn’t want this?” My words come out in a shaky rush, panic clawing at me. My heart’s racing. “This was supposed to be one night—just one reckless night. How could he want this? I barely know him. What makes me think he’d want to be a dad?”
“You think he’s some big, tough guy who doesn’t care, but trust me, this might be the thing that changes him.”
“Change him how?”
Isla sighs, tilting her head. “Look, Harrison’s got his rough edges, yeah, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s loyal, and when he cares, he’ll fight like hell for the people he loves. He might surprise you, Midge.”
I swallow hard, the weight of her words sinking in. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll tell him. Just... give me a minute to figure out how to say it.”
“You can definitely do that.” Isla nods. “There’ll be nights when it feels like you’re drowning in it, when the questions and fear won’t stop coming, and it’s all too much. But you’re not in this alone. We’ll cry, laugh, scream—whatever it takes. You’ll get through it. I’ll make sure you do.”
Her words settle into the cracks, patching the panic just enough. No way am I turning into my mum. I’ve clawed my way too far to go down that road. Dad raised me tougher than that—tougher than this. If Harrison bails, so what? I’ve handled worse. Who needs a bloke, anyway? I swipe at my eyes, dragging in a breath and bracing for whatever’s next.
There’s a tiny person on board now, and I’ll be damned if I let them down. Isla shifts Callie onto her hip, tickling her chubby cheek.
“Guess what, little miss? You’re getting a cousin to boss around.” She grins at me, throwing in a cheeky raspberry for Callie’s delight. “Too soon?”
“Way too soon,” I groan, rolling my eyes. But there’s a twitch at the corner of my mouth, the start of a reluctant smile. Unease simmers, but I rest my hand on my stomach. Game on, kid.