39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Thirty-Nine
AVA
I lower myself into the kitchen chair and immediately regret it. My body feels like it’s made of wet sand: heavy, slow, uncooperative. I blink at my laptop screen, trying to force focus, but the words blur before I can finish a sentence.
It’s been two days since the gala. Two days since I stood onstage in heels and full makeup and somehow pulled off a night that raised a quarter of a million dollars. I thought that once the pressure lifted, I’d feel normal again.
But if anything, I feel worse.
The nausea that used to creep in occasionally now lingers, coiled low in my stomach like it’s taken up permanent residence.
I’ve barely had an appetite all week, and even the smell of my usual tea this morning made me gag.
My limbs ache like I ran a marathon in my sleep, and I’ve been crying at random commercials for reasons I can’t explain.
Stress. Adrenaline crash. It’s probably just the aftermath of pushing myself too hard for too long.
Still, something nags at the edge of my mind. A whisper I can’t quite catch.
I press my fingers to my temples, willing the tension away.
“I’m fine,” I mutter aloud, as if saying it will make it true.
But even as I reach for my water bottle, the buttery smell of the twins’ morning waffles hangs heavy in the air, and my stomach flips so hard I have to close my eyes.
I glance at the clock. Jenna texted earlier, promising to swing by with “comfort carbs and some well-deserved decompression.” As much as I want to hide, I’m relieved she’ll be here soon.
When the doorbell rings, the tension in my chest loosens, just a little.
A little while later, we’re curled up on the couch in the living room. The twins are at school, Miss Taylor is out running errands, and Jackson’s at the rink for a light practice and treatment session before Game 1 of the Finals in two days.
I’m in leggings and a hoodie, wrapped in a throw blanket like someone twice my age. Jenna’s brought takeout and a bag of miniature lemon muffins, declaring we both deserved a proper post-gala debrief.
She’s halfway through a story about a board member texting her at midnight with a typo correction when she pauses mid-sentence and narrows her eyes at me.
“Okay, seriously. You still look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly, sinking deeper into the cushions.
“I’m not kidding, Ava. You look pale, and you haven’t touched your food. You’ve been dragging for a while now.”
“I know,” I sigh. “I thought I’d bounce back after the gala. But I’ve just been so tired. And queasy. And emotional.”
“Have you taken anything? Vitamins? Ibuprofen?”
I shake my head. “No fever. I just feel… off. Probably an adrenaline crash. I’ve barely slept the last few weeks.”
Jenna tilts her head. “Okay. But nausea? Crying at everything? Your sense of smell is suddenly dialed up to a hundred…”
She trails off.
I blink at her. “What?”
She stares at me like it’s obvious. “Ava.”
“What?” I repeat, sitting up slightly.
She sets her takeout container aside. “When was your last period?”
The question lands like a slap. I open my mouth to answer and then pause. My brain scrambles, flipping through weeks like calendar pages.
“Oh my god.”
Jenna’s brows lift.
“I—I thought it was just late,” I say slowly. “I figured it was the stress and the schedule and everything with Brad. And I have an IUD. It’s not supposed to—” I stop, because the words sound flimsy, even to me.
Jenna gives a gentle shrug. “No birth control is perfect.”
My stomach drops.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes like that’ll reset my brain. Like this moment will disappear if I squeeze hard enough.
“This can’t be happening,” I murmur.
Jenna doesn’t say anything right away. She just waits. Calm. Steady. The opposite of whatever’s spiraling through me right now.
I drop my hands to my lap. “My IUD’s been working fine,” I say again, like repeating it will undo something. “I never even think about it.”
“But you missed a period,” she says gently. “You’ve been nauseous. Exhausted. And don’t hate me, but you’ve been kind of… glowy. The way people get when they’re—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, voice a little too sharp.
She stops. “Okay.”
Silence stretches.
I twist the edge of the blanket between my fingers, heart pounding harder now. I feel hot all of a sudden, like my skin can’t decide if it’s too cold or too flushed.
“I’m not ready for this,” I whisper. “I don’t even know what this is yet.”
“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Jenna says softly. “You just have to take a test.”
My stomach lurches. “What if it’s positive?”
“Then we deal with it. Together.”
I nod, barely.
Because the truth is, I already know what my body’s been trying to tell me. I just didn’t want to listen. Didn’t want to name it. Because once you name it, you can’t un-know it.
I don’t move for a long moment.
The logical part of me (the part that planned every inch of the gala and color-coded our silent auction tracking sheet) wants to run through every possibility. Wants to look up IUD failure rates, read every statistic, and turn it all into something measurable.
But the rest of me? The human part? The part that’s scared and tired and still hasn’t fully come down from the last six weeks?
That part just whispers: you already know.
She rises from the couch, grabs her purse, checks her keys. “There’s a pharmacy two minutes from here. I’ll be right back.”
No hesitation, no questions, just action. That’s Jenna.
“I could go—”
“Nope,” she says gently, already heading for the door. “You sit there, drink some water, and try not to overthink yourself into a coma.”
I let out a hollow breath, something like a laugh and a sob tangled together.
She pauses before she leaves. “Ava?”
I look up.
“If it’s positive, just remember you’re not alone.”
I nod, throat thick. “Thanks.”
And then I’m alone with nothing but the hum of the air conditioner and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I always thought motherhood would be a choice—something for a future version of my life, after marriage and stability.
But Brad never wanted kids. Said it lightly at first, then more firmly as the years went on.
So I adjusted. Told myself Open Pages was enough, that pouring my heart into other people’s children could fill the space.
Maybe it did. Maybe I stopped asking what I wanted because it felt safer not to want at all.
Now I’m in Jackson’s house, wrapped in his sweatshirt, wondering what’s next for us. I don’t know for sure yet.
He’s kind. Steady. Ridiculously patient. The way he loves his boys makes something ache in my chest.
But that’s the thing. He already has kids. A full, beautiful life.
What if I really am pregnant?
What if it’s too much, and it pushes him away?
Is everything about to change forever?