Only a Gemini Will Do

1. Sawyer

Sawyer

S ix weeks after the hurricane.

I looked around at my desk, cluttered with yellow and green sticky notes and case files, where I sat across from my fourth client of the day.

My green, silk blouse was tucked into my high-waisted gray trousers, which felt unusually tight at the waist. The aroma of the lukewarm coffee inside my ceramic mug, which read “ Will give legal advice for coffee, ” made my stomach churn in an acidic brew.

My eyes tightened at the corners, trying to focus on the intake form in front of me.

My client, a young black mother looking for help with her custody dispute over her two-year-old son, was in the middle of her sentence when I reached out to grip the edge of my worn oak desk.

My belly soured as an unexpected wave of nausea rolled through me.

I shot to my feet before quickly excusing myself.

Inside the bathroom, I hovered over the sink to rinse out my mouth after throwing up the turkey and cheese sandwich I’d eaten for lunch forty-five minutes earlier.

My thoughts immediately traced back to the hurricane.

To him . Kareem had been living rent-free in my head ever since he’d spread my thighs from east to west like a bad rumor.

Only, I hadn’t heard a peep from him since we parted ways in Tampa.

Shit. I couldn’t be pregnant . . . could I?

I rid the thought from my mind. Or at least I tried to. Only then did my thoughts trickle over to the past couple of weeks, where Butta had refused to leave my side. He’d been whiny and clingy as if he could sense something was off with me.

Pull it together, Sawyer. It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

But deep down, I knew I was lying to myself.

After a few deep breaths, I reentered my office clutching a Styrofoam cup of water from the water cooler. I flashed my client a pasted-on smile. She was still seated — legs curled beneath her and her arms folded over her chest.

“So sorry about that,” I apologized while easing back behind my desk. “I just needed a drink.”

She dipped her chin, but her eyes lingered on me for a few seconds. “You good?”

I nodded, instinctively ready to get back to work. But it was the concern in her voice that gave me pause.

“Yup. I’m fine,” I confirmed softly, skipping the eye contact. “Just one of those days.”

She flashed me a genuine smile. “I feel that.”

I reopened her folder, my eyes skating over the paperwork with new and improved attention.

But I still couldn’t stop my thoughts from drifting from the legal strategy I should’ve been focused on to the pregnancy test I knew I needed to purchase as soon as I got off work.

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered violently again, and I reached out to take a small sip of water, unable to stay still.

By the end of our appointment, we’d managed to outline an action plan I was comfortable with.

She thanked me and told me to take care of myself as she stood to leave.

As the door closed behind her, I sat back, my hand drifting absentmindedly to my stomach.

I was thankful the nausea had subsided, but the weight of a possible positive pregnancy test still lingered.

I reached for my phone, intending to check my calendar for upcoming hearings.

Instead, my thumb hovered over the app that tracked my periods.

I rarely opened it, but I tapped it out of curiosity.

The screen loaded slowly, then a notification popped up on the screen in bold red text, “Missed period by over thirty days. Consider taking a pregnancy test.”

My heart somersaulted inside my chest.

I sat up in my chair as if straightening my posture might make the words change if I sat up straight enough.

Over a month? I was used to my periods being irregular in times of heavy stress, but that couldn’t be right.

I scrolled back through the last few weeks, confirming what I already suspected.

The sensitivity to smells. The excessive fatigue.

My nipples feeling raw and tender like fresh pieces of meat.

Not to mention the constant race to the bathroom to either vomit or pee, and Butta’s unexplained clinginess.

All the pieces began to gel into one undeniable puzzle; one I wouldn’t dare say out loud. Not until I knew for sure.

Half an hour after I got off from work, I stood in line at the pharmacy with my hands latched around a box with two pregnancy tests inside, like it might detonate in my palms. The drive home was a blur.

I barely recalled the topic of the podcast that played in the background.

All I could do was think about what the results would be.

At home, I peeled off my heels by the door before switching into my Crocs and taking Butta out for a walk.

I was too anxious to be outside too long.

The minute Butta and I stepped foot back inside the apartment, my eyes locked on the box sticking out of my purse.

Butta stood beside me, tail thumping on repeat.

“Be right back, Butta Bean.”

I took a deep breath before picking up the box and heading into the bathroom. My hands trembled and my heartbeat bucked against its reins as I followed the instructions to the letter.

Then came the dreaded three-minute wait.

I set a timer on my phone, and immediately started pacing the bathroom floor—barefoot with my blouse wrinkled and my trousers unbuttoned.

Butta scratched outside the door, seemingly just as anxious as I was.

I stopped pacing long enough to look at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head as a million thoughts raced through my mind.

So what if I’m late? Work has been stressful lately. It’s probably just that, not a baby.

How old was the lunch meat in the sandwich I had for lunch? Maybe that was bad.

Then the timer sounded off, and my heart plummeted to my feet.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as I stared at the test on the corner of the sink. I inched forward, steps minced as I leaned into it to read the results.

“Positive,” I whispered in disbelief, staring at the two lines with a dazed look.

One night stand.

Two positive pink lines.

Every reason in the world to lose my fucking mind.

My hand flew over my parted lips. Butta continued to whine softly on the other side of the door, but I was too stuck on stupid to tend to him.

Instead, I sank onto the toilet seat, knees turning to water beneath me, and let out a hard sigh as the harsh reality of my situation washed over me like a tsunami wave.

I was pregnant . . . by an escaped felon . . . who was on the run.

What in the Tubi movie is going on with my life?

My mind was a blur of disbelief as my eyes remained glued to the test in my trembling hand.

I remembered everything vividly—from the minute I found him naked on my couch in the middle of a hurricane to the way I’d let him bend my body like a pretzel and beat my pussy into submission for the first time in months.

Kareem was somehow charming and disrespectful at the same time, and gone by the end of the weekend. No regrets and no promises.

We were careful in the beginning. We used condoms. But then there was the goodbye bathroom sex in Tampa that sealed our fate. My stomach twisted into knots . . . not from queasiness, but from the slow, chilling realization that my entire life—no—my whole existence was about to change.

I finally found the strength to pull myself up and open the bathroom door. Butta raced in and quickly curled around my leg, as if hugging me. I had the feeling that somehow, he’d known all along.

“Well, Butta, it looks like you’re going to be a big brother,” I announced.

He was the only one I could tell. I wouldn’t dare breathe the news to anyone else, especially not until I was able to wrap my mind around what being pregnant by a man I’d probably never see again meant for me.

I didn’t know where Kareem was. I didn’t even know if he’d care that I was pregnant. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted him to.

My throat tightened with guilt when I thought about the alternative. After all, there were other options available to me. But in the moment, they all felt like a noose more than a lifeline.

“I can do this. I mean, women raise babies by themselves every day, right?” I asked Butta, fully not expecting a response.

“At least I have you to help. You can watch the baby while I run to pee, or let me know if it’s getting into things it shouldn’t be.

You’re up for that, right? It won’t be easy, though.

And what if we suck at being a good mom and big brother? Once we commit, we can’t go back.”

Butta cocked his head to the side before walking away.

I huffed. Even my dog wouldn’t give me the vote of confidence I desperately needed.

I pressed my palm against my flat stomach out of a mix of curiosity and fear.

There was no basketball bump, no butterfly flutter.

Just the knowledge that something foreign was growing inside me .

. . something I hadn’t meant to go half on with a felon.

This wasn’t supposed to be my story, and yet, it was. And it was so very real.

I made my way down the hall and sat on the edge of the couch with the pregnancy test still in my hand as if it had been glued there.

My small apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the neighbor’s TV on the other side of the wall and Butta’s soft lapping from his water bowl.

It felt like I hadn’t blinked in ten minutes—maybe more.

Kareem had been a moment—a flicker of passion in the middle of an unexpected storm.

I remembered how he made me laugh almost as hard as he made me cum, how he made my cat run like a faucet, and how he touched me like I’d always been his.

But he was gone, and had been for some time.

I knew better than to ask for more than he was willing to give.

“I don’t even know what I’d say if I saw him again,” I mumbled, imagining how the awkward conversation would play out.

Hey, it’s me, the one whose apartment you broke into during the hurricane that one time. Guess what? I’m pregnant with your baby. Congrats!

It felt ridiculous. And yet, the truth felt like a ton of bricks on my chest.

I found my phone and hovered over the text thread with my best friends, then immediately locked the screen.

No one could know, at least not until I couldn’t hide it anymore.

I wasn’t ready to face the questions. The judgment.

The unsolicited advice. I needed time to think of a plan about how I was going to handle the secret that was quietly growing in my belly.

“It’s just me. And you. And Butta,” I whispered as I curled up on the couch with my hand on my stomach.

Butta instinctively jumped up beside me and rested his fuzzy head on my lap.

I stroked his brown fur as my mind raced just thinking about important things like making doctor’s appointments, looking into my job’s maternity leave policies, going through childbirth alone, and the cost of formula and childcare in Jacksonville—all things that never mattered to me before those two pink lines showed up. But now, they were my new reality.