Chapter 3
3
ROWENA
I dart through the bustling New York sidewalks, my flats slapping against the concrete as I dodge businessmen engrossed in their cell phones. The late spring sun beats down on me, making me break a sweat despite my lightweight blouse. Normally, I’d relish the warm glow on my face, but today a sickening nausea swirls in my gut, casting a shadow over everything.
“Excuse me, sorry,” I wheeze as I weave through the crowd, glancing at my watch. Damn, I’m going to be so late getting back to the office. I had to squeeze this doctor’s appointment into my measly forty-five-minute lunch break, but the doctor was running fifteen minutes behind, so now I’m half an hour over. Ugh, it’s already past two thirty; my boss, Brian, will get on my case again, the tyrant.
But that’s the least of my problems. My mind reels, still processing the news that knocked the wind out of me ten minutes ago: I’m pregnant. Seven weeks along. The father is my dirtbag ex, Liam, who I mustered the courage to dump a month and a half ago—guess I should’ve been a week faster .
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
How did I not notice the signs? My bra has felt like a vise lately, but I chalked that up to PMS. The random puking I blamed on spoiled takeout. As for missing my period, well, that’s not abnormal for me. My cycle is about as regular as the G train.
I press a hand to my still-flat stomach and feel a pang of… what? Regret? Panic? Irrational joy? Dizziness washes over me and I’m not sure if it’s the pregnancy hormones or the enormity of the situation making me woozy. Single and knocked up was not in my thirty-before-thirty plan.
Gosh, I’ll have to tell Liam. The manipulative jerk will probably see this as his chance to worm his way back into my life—or run for the hills never to be seen again, which, ironically, would be the preferred outcome. At the thought of facing him, a revulsion so visceral emanates through me, and I almost double over. I’m going to be sick right here on Broadway.
Angry horns blare as I duck out of the snarled traffic, cutting it close at a crosswalk. The acrid smell of exhaust hits my nostrils, and my stomach recoils. I suppress a gag against the bile rising in my throat, again dubious if it is morning sickness or just pure dread making me queasy.
I exhale slowly, trying to quell my spiraling thoughts as I hurry down the block to my office building. One crisis at a time, Rowena. First, grovel to Brian and pray he’s in a merciful mood. Then survive the rest of the day at work. And after that? Collapse into bed with a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk. Wrap my head around the news that there’s a tiny person growing inside me. And make a plan.
As I step into the air-conditioned lobby of the office tower where I work as a junior software engineer, I beg my mind to shift into problem-solving mode. I’m a coder, after all—debugging is my specialty. But this glitch in my life’s program feels impossible to untangle.
I join the throng of people waiting for the elevators. The up button is circled by a red light, signaling the call has already been made, but I poke it again and tap my foot as I follow the progress of numbers slowly descending on the overhead screen, willing the doors to open faster. Come on, come on.
The more I stand here, unmoving, the more questions pile in my head. How am I going to manage a baby on my own? My boss isn’t exactly warm-hearted; he’ll give me two weeks of paid maternity leave at best. And daycare costs more than my rent in this city. Maybe I could work from home for a while? That could ensure survival, but what about my career? I’m working my butt off to establish myself in a male-dominated field. How will having a kid impact my ability to keep pushing?
The elevator dings and I wedge in among briefcases and power ties, my bag clutched to my churning stomach. As we ascend, I take long, calming inhales, the effort futile when trapped in a metal box thick with conflicting colognes. I just need to make it to the seventeenth floor without puking.
Taking in my reflection in the mirrored walls—looking pale and shell-shocked—I’d say my chances of not retching on the suits are fifty-fifty.
Think of something else.
I close my eyes, trying to picture myself as a mom. All I can conjure is an image of me with spit-up on my shirt, dark circles under my eyes, and code scrolling endlessly on my laptop while a baby wails in the background.
Unstoppable tears carve paths down my face. I feel lost, like I’m stuck in a maze with no exit in sight. I wish I could call my mom for advice, but I’m not ready to confess to my parents the colossal mess I’m in, how spectacularly I’ve botched my life.
The elevator opens on my floor and I press through the throng of bodies to get out. I remove my black-rimmed glasses, wiping the tears from my cheeks and pasting on a neutral expression before I make my way to my desk. As I cross the open-space office, I avoid eye contact with my coworkers, eager to hide in my cubicle.
I slide into my chair and stare blankly at my screen, the lines of program I left unfinished before lunch blurring before my eyes. I drop my head in my hands, one thought drilling through my skull. I’m having a baby. On my own. With Liam as the father.
A light rap on my cubicle wall followed by Brian’s signature throaty cough—the one he deploys before he bites your head off—alerts me to my boss’s looming figure.
Oh no. I peer up, already cringing as I meet Brian’s unforgiving scowl. “Rowena.” He greets me with a thin smile. “How nice of you to finally join us.”
I plaster on a forced grin, trying to disguise my queasiness. “Sorry, I had a doctor’s appointment that ran late.”
His eyebrow arches skeptically. “How convenient. Well, now that you’ve graced us with your presence, follow me.” He turns on his heel, striding toward his office without waiting for my reply.
Crap. My stomach sinks further as I trail after him.
He sits at his desk, instructing me to close the door. I do as I’m told. The latch’s click rings ominously in my ears.
I cross the room—small by any office standard, but endless compared to the size of my cubicle—and perch on the chair across from Brian’s desk, hands clenched together to hide their trembling .
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” he begins, leaning back and leveling me with a cool stare. “The project you were assigned to has been discontinued. And with the budget cuts, your role is no longer… shall we say, essential.”
Wait, what? My mouth falls open, but no words emerge. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“To put it bluntly, Rowena, we’re eliminating your position. Effective immediately.”
It’s the second cold shower in an hour. Only this one feels more like an ice shower where instead of ice chips, solid cubes are being thrown straight at my head. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Rowena, it’s out of my hands.”
His lips curl into a smug smirk. He’s not sorry at all. If anything, he seems to relish delivering this devastating news.
The floor wobbles beneath my feet as the message sinks in—I’m being fired. Canned. Let go.
First, I’m having a baby, and now this? Jobless and pregnant, with no partner to lean on. I can’t raise a kid alone in New York City with no income. Already, I was going to be grasping at straws with my salary. Now, it’s going to be impossible.
A sour taste rises at the back of my throat and saliva floods my mouth. Oh, fuck. It’s happening. I’m going to hurl. Right here, right now, all over my boss’s pristine designer suit. He’d deserve it, the insufferable prick.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to projectile vomit my disgust and despair on Brian and see if he can keep his smug expression. Maybe I should do it, a last act of defiance.
But my stomach refuses to cooperate. Better this way; I need a good reference, not a criminal record for assault with a biological weapon .
“What about severance? Do I at least get a payout to tide me over while I look for a new job?” I hate how small and weak my voice sounds. Like I’ve already been defeated.
Brian slides a manila folder across his mahogany desk. “It’s all outlined here. Three months’ salary. That’s the best we can do.”
Three months. I quickly do the mental math. It’ll cover my portion of the rent in the apartment I share with Nina and Hunter, my best friends, for a while. But not all the upcoming doctor visits and baby supplies I’ll need. Without medical insurance, I’m royally screwed.
I want to argue, to stand up for myself and demand more. I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this company for three years. But the fight has drained out of me, replaced by an exhaustion that seeps deep into my bones. What’s the point? He wants me gone.
“Fine.”
“Great. You have to go see HR, sign a few things, then security will escort you out once you’ve gathered your belongings. Company policy.”
And there it is. The final nail in the coffin of my career. I nod numbly, then turn and exit his office on shaking legs, the taste of failure bitter on my tongue.
When I get back to my desk after signing a million release of claims papers, my laptop is already gone. Good thing I made it a policy never to store anything private on it, not even a single picture to use as a screensaver. As I gather my few personal items from my cubicle into a cardboard box someone has conveniently dropped off, the enormity of my situation crashes over me in waves. Jobless. Pregnant. Alone. The three words swirl in my mind, a taunting mantra of despair.
I can’t afford to live in New York without a steady income. But I don’t know if I can muster the energy I’d need to interview for new jobs. Even making it to the office today felt like a Herculean effort with the constant nausea and fatigue. And what’s even the point? As my pregnancy progresses, my baby bump will become a flashing neon sign: “Don’t hire me! Maternity leave imminent!”
I’ll have no choice but to crawl back to Omaha with my tail between my legs and move in with my parents. The thought makes me cringe. I love Mom and Dad, but returning to my hometown as a knocked-up, unemployed failure is the stuff of nightmares.
Balancing the box precariously against my hip and flanked by a burly security guard, I keep my gaze on the floor as I walk toward the exit. Even if I don’t see them, I can feel the shocked stares of my colleagues on me. I can’t get out of here fast enough. At the elevator bank, I jab the down button with more force than necessary.
As the bell chimes with an annoyingly cheerful ding, I ask my escort if he’s coming all the way down with me. Showing more empathy than Brian did, he shakes his head. But he still asks for my access badge back.
I snap the cord off my neck with a yank and hand it to him. We share a small nod of perhaps commiseration for him and gratitude on my part for a basic display of humanity, and then I push the lobby button. The elevator doors close swiftly on life as I knew it.
As the floors tick down, the meager breakfast bagel I ate on the way to the doctor threatens to make a reappearance. By the time I reach the lobby, I’m gulping for air, praying I can hold it together until I’m outside.
No such luck. My stomach clamps painfully, and a cold sweat breaks out over my forehead. I make a mad dash across the lobby for the restrooms, barging inside and abandoning my box of belongings outside a stall.
I don’t even have time to close the door before I’m hunched over the toilet, splattering the contents of my stomach into the bowl.
As I heave and gasp, tears streaming down my face, a hysterical laugh shakes me. Could this day get any worse? Then again, maybe puking my guts out in my former office building is the perfect metaphor for my life right now—a complete and undignified mess.
I flush to purge the awful smell, then sink back, dropping my butt on my heels. I’m not sure I’m done throwing up and I’m not ready for a packed subway ride home. Eventually, I’ll have to face the world. But for now, I allow myself a break. This one moment to fall apart.
Because starting tomorrow, I’ll have to be strong. For myself, and for this unexpected life growing inside me. I’ll have to make this work.
Even if I have no idea how. Fuck. I’m going to be sick again.
Still bent over the toilet, I hear the restroom door slam open, followed by hurried footsteps and the heavy thud of someone crashing into the stall next to mine.
Retching sounds erupt from the newcomer, and my stomach churns in sympathy, prompting another violent wave of nausea. I clutch the cool porcelain as my body convulses, wondering who the stranger in the stall next door is and what happened to them.