Chapter 13
LYRA
My aunt always insists on eating early. Not quite early-bird-special early, but definitely before the dinner crowd takes over.
So by six-thirty we’re already seated at a cozy little place near her apartment, tucked into a booth while the air hums with garlic, white wine, and warm bread.
The walls are covered in vintage art, all mismatched and sentimental, and the waitstaff greet her by name.
She’s the kind of woman who’s been a regular at her favorite restaurants for years. She’s basically a New York institution in her own right.
We’ve just finished our main courses when she leans back with a small sigh, dabs at her mouth, and says, “So. Tell me about the new job. Is it as exciting as you hoped?”
I smile as I swirl the last bit of pasta on my fork. “It’s been amazing so far. Really. Better than I expected.”
“You’ve always been good with tech. I knew you’d find something interesting.”
I nod, grateful she doesn’t ask for specifics.
She wouldn’t understand half of what I do, and honestly, I’m still figuring out parts of it myself.
But I love every aspect of it, all the challenge, the buzz of creativity, the fast pace.
I love the way the office pulses with ideas and ambition. And I love—
I stop the thought before it fully forms.
“And the people?” she asks, eyebrows lifting. “Are your coworkers nice to you?”
“Some of them are,” I say carefully. “Some are a little weird. But overall, it’s a really welcoming atmosphere.”
It’s true, in a way. The office has its personalities, sure, but none of them matter as much as the one I pretend not to think about all day.
The one whose footsteps I recognize before I even see his shoes.
The one who looks at me like he’s undressing me with his eyes.
The one who actually does undress me when we’re finally alone.
“You’re glowing,” she says, reaching for her glass of wine. “I can tell you’re really happy there.”
I raise my eyebrows and feign confusion. “I’m glowing?”
She gives me a look. “Don’t play dumb with me, missy,” she says with a wink. “Are you seeing someone?”
My stomach dips. I should’ve known this was coming.
She always slides it in after a glass and a half of wine.
My aunt wants nothing more than to see me married off with a brood of children like my sister.
To her, that’s the highest achievement any woman can have.
And as much as I would love to tell her about Damien, she wouldn’t understand.
“No one serious,” I say.
It’s not technically a lie, but it still falls short of the truth.
She hums and sips her wine, giving me that look that says she knows better but won’t push.
“You’re at that age, sweetheart. It’s nice to focus on your career, of course, but don’t wait too long to settle down.”
I smile politely, already feeling the heat creeping into my cheeks.
“I just don’t want you to miss your window,” she adds.
“This isn’t the sixties, Aunt Judy,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “The window is a myth.”
She chuckles. “You young girls always say that, but there’s definitely a window. It’s just easier to ignore when you’re young. But one day you wake up and realize that the window has passed and you’ve missed your chance to have a family.”
“Are we seriously talking about ticking clocks right now?”
She shrugs. “I’m just saying, you’re smart and beautiful. You should be sharing that with someone who’s going to stick around.”
My throat tightens. I picture Damien, all sharp angles and dark intentions. He’s methodical and precise. He has his sweet moments too, but he’s not someone I can picture in a cardigan posing for a Christmas photo or holding a screaming toddler.
I force a laugh. “God, you sound like a Hallmark movie.”
She smiles, completely unbothered. “At least Hallmark movies have happy endings.”
“Yeah,” I say. “If you ignore the parts that would never happen in real life.”
The check arrives a minute later, saving me from further commentary.
I pay before she can argue. Her rule is that whoever picks the place doesn’t pay, but truthfully, she’s picked up the tab most of my life.
When it’s all settled, we bundle up to head outside.
The air is brisk enough to make my nose run and my fingers stiff.
She kisses my cheek, promises to text me a casserole recipe I’ll never make, and waves as she disappears into her building.
I pull my coat tighter around me and flag down a cab. It’s a quiet ride. The driver doesn’t talk at all and we’re only left with the soft hum of his radio. I rest my forehead against the cool glass and let my mind wander.
I think about work. I think about the app I’ve been trying to debug all week. I think about Damien’s hand on my thigh last night under the dinner table and the way he said my name when he dropped me off at my place this morning.
Then, three blocks from home, a strange feeling hits.
It starts as a tickle at the nape of my neck, an unease I can’t quite name. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, then to the sidewalk outside, then behind us, but there’s no obvious danger. No one is staring at me from the shadows. There’s no car following too closely.
But the feeling lingers, a heightened awareness of being watched.
I shake it off. I’m not the type to spiral into paranoia, but in New York anything could happen. But it doesn’t fade, even after the cab lets me out at the curb and drives off with a soft hum. The hairs on my arms lift.
I turn casually, pretending to adjust the strap of my purse, and scan the sidewalk behind me.
There’s nothing there.
Still, I move faster than usual. My keys are already between my fingers as I reach the front door of the apartment building, and I don’t let go of them until I’m locked inside. The foyer is warm, softly lit, and empty. I press the button for the elevator and watch the numbers descend.
One floor, then two, then three.
I turn one last time and nothing awaits me.
The elevator dings. I step inside and lean against the mirrored wall, exhaling. It’s probably just my aunt’s comments throwing me off. Or maybe I’m tired. Or maybe it’s the guilt I’ve been feeling since I started sleeping with Damien.
The elevator doors open. I walk quickly to my apartment, slide the key into the lock, and shut the door behind me with a quiet click.
I’m safe now.
I set my bag down and head to the kitchen, flipping on the lights as I go.
The familiar comfort of my apartment wraps around me like a blanket, and I start to breathe a little easier.
Still, I glance toward the window. The city glows beyond the glass, quiet and alive.
I tell myself there’s no one there. But I don’t completely let go of that feeling of unease.
When I wake up the next morning, I smell something terrible. When I go into the kitchen, the first thing I see is the coffeemaker. I approach it slowly, like it may bite me, and sure enough, that’s the source of the horrid smell.
It’s very weird. I love coffee. I basically live on coffee. But now, the scent is like wet dirt and sour metal. My hand jerks away from the coffee pot, and I have to press the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from gagging.
Becca looks up from her spot at the table, a bowl of oatmeal in front of her and a thick book cracked open beside it.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, though I probably don’t look convincing. “Yeah. Just, ugh. I think something’s wrong with these coffee beans.”
She looks at me curiously. “They’re the same beans we always use.”
“Well, they’ve turned into something evil overnight.”
I grab a banana and sit down across from her, trying to will away the nausea curling low in my stomach. I take one bite and immediately regret it. The texture feels wrong. Like glue. I swallow and push the rest of it away.
“Okay,” Becca says, pointing her spoon at me. “What’s going on with you?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
I glare at her, but it’s weak. She knows me too well.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I woke up with this awful feeling in my stomach. It’s not pain exactly, but it just feels off. And now everything smells disgusting and the idea of food is gross to me.”
Becca sets her spoon down and leans forward. “Are you stressed?”
“Probably,” I mumble. “Work’s been insane, and—” I stop short, not wanting to say Damien’s name out loud.
“And…?”
I shrug. “Just life. I’m sure it was something I ate. Maybe the pasta I had for dinner was off.”
She watches me for a second, then tilts her head. “When did you have your last period?”
If I’d been drinking anything, I would have spit it at her. “Excuse me? How’s that any of your business?”
“Because I always stock the bathroom with tampons, and I didn’t have to buy as many this month.”
My heart thuds once heavily as I consider this. I do a mental count, then do it again. My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago?”
Becca raises both eyebrows as if she’s not convinced of my counting skills.
“Okay, maybe longer.”
“Lyra…” she starts.
“No,” I say quickly. “No, it’s not that. I can’t be pregnant.”
She folds her arms. “You can’t be or don’t want to be?”
“Both!” I sputter, unable to believe we’re actually having this conversation.
“You’ve been with Damien almost every day for the last month,” she says softly, not judging, just confirming.
I look down at the table, unable to meet her eyes. “That’s true,” I reluctantly admit.
“Were you guys using anything?”
“We were careful,” I mutter, unable to meet her eyes.
Becca doesn’t say anything to that.
“I mean, it’s possible,” I mutter. “But it can’t be that. Right? I probably just caught a stomach bug or something. That restaurant kitchen didn’t look great.”
“Your aunt’s been eating there for years, right?”
“So what?” I argue. “Maybe they had an off batch of meat or something.”
Becca stands and grabs her phone. “We’re calling your doctor.”
“No!”
“Lyra.”
I sigh and slump back in my chair. “You’re bossy, you know that?”
“I’m a great friend,” she argues, sticking her tongue out at me. “There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes but take the phone she offers and call my doctor’s office.
There’s a cancellation for later that morning.
Becca insists on coming with me, and I’m too tired to argue.
The subway ride over is mostly quiet except for her playlist humming through her headphones.
I keep thinking about Damien, wondering how he would react to this news.
We’re not even officially dating. Would he think I’m trying to trap him into something?
Nope. I’m not going there.
We get to the clinic, and the waiting room smells like antiseptic and baby powder. A mother is in the corner with a toddler on her lap, reading a board book about colors. I sit beside Becca, my hands twisted in my coat, my stomach still doing cartwheels.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I whisper.
“Good thing we’re at a doctor’s office, then,” she whispers back.
I swat her arm, but it makes me smile for a second. Then the nerves return, heavy and sharp.
The nurse finally steps into the room. “Lyra Taylor?”
I jump at the sudden calling of my name, unable to process it. Becca nudges me. “Go. You’ve got this.”
I follow the nurse down the hallway, answering questions like a robot, too dazed to process much. She hands me a cup and points toward the restroom. I lock the door behind me and stare at myself in the mirror for a moment before doing what I need to do.
When I return, I sit on the exam table and wait. And wait. Each minute stretches until I’m sure I’m going to scream.
When the doctor comes in, she’s holding a chart and smiling gently.
“Lyra,” she says. “It’s good to see you again.”
I nod, my throat tight, wishing she’d just get to it. I answer a few more questions on autopilot until she finally does.
“We ran the standard test and confirmed the result.”
I feel my pulse in my throat.
She meets my eyes. “You’re pregnant.”