Chapter 23
Rina
I’m still out of sorts the next morning as I type a message in the group chat.
The memory of last night clings to me like a second skin that’s impossible to peel off.
Oliver in the bathroom.
The press of his hard body.
The warm scrape of his mouth against mine.
It all loops through my head on a slow, relentless reel.
The way I melted into him.
Again.
The man is like an addiction I have no idea how to beat.
Me: Need advice. Bakery?
Callie: We got you, girl.
Sloane: Coffee and a dirty hustler will be waiting.
Lilah: Leaving in fifteen.
Me: You’re all the best.
Knowing my girls have my back steadies me enough to move through my normal routine. By the time I push through the door of Lakeshore Sweets an hour later, my nerves are frayed to the breaking point. The comforting scent of sugar and cinnamon usually wraps around me like a warm blanket.
Today, it’s too sweet.
Too heavy.
Almost as if the air itself is closing in on me.
Callie waves me toward the corner table with a warm smile.
Lilah glows, her bump straining against a cozy sweater, happiness radiating off her.
Sloane eyes me over the rim of her mug, wearing that look she gets when she’s trying to dissect my mood and figure out how to fix it.
She’s protective, fierce, and unapologetically loyal.
A few minutes later, Callie sets a steaming mug in front of me.
I wrap my hands around it, desperate for something to steady my nerves.
The bitter scent of espresso hits my nose, and nausea rolls through my belly.
I jerk back, setting the cup down a little too quickly.
The clatter makes all three women look up at once.
“Is something wrong with the coffee?” Callie asks with a frown.
“No.” The reply scrapes out as I push the mug away. “It just hit me wrong.”
Fatigue spreads through me. It’s the kind sleep can’t fix. Everything that’s happened lately feels heavier by the day, seeping into every part of my life. My sleep, my mood, even the pit that’s settled at the bottom of my stomach.
Lilah’s light laugh cuts through the quiet. “Are you sure you’re not pregnant? During my first trimester, coffee made me nauseous. I couldn’t stand the smell of it.”
Her question lands like a sucker punch.
Pregnant?
No way.
Even the thought is ridiculous.
My brain scrambles for another explanation. Bad fish, stress—anything that makes sense. Half the time I barely eat, and sleep is hit-or-miss. Of course I’d feel off.
I can’t be pregnant.
I just can’t be.
Except… I start counting backward, tracking weeks in my head, each one slipping like sand through my fingers. The numbers blur. Every date I land on feels wrong. My stomach twists, turning into more of a cramp.
No.
No.
No.
I’m not that girl who misses things. I keep calendars. I plan. I don’t make mistakes like this.
My throat closes around the thought before it can fully form. The room suddenly feels smaller.
It’s too warm.
Much too bright.
The sound of clinking cups and chatter presses in until panic prickles beneath my skin.
“I… uh… just remembered a meeting.” My voice cracks as I shove back in my chair. The legs screech against the tile, making me wince. I grab my purse, keys, phone—anything to keep my hands from trembling—and force myself upright before my friends can see through the lie. “Talk soon.”
As soon as I step into the chill outside, the warmth vanishes, replaced by a bite of wind. I’m hoping it’ll be enough to clear my head. My heels strike the sidewalk, a staccato cadence that sounds too much like running as Lilah’s question chases me down the block.
Are you sure you’re not pregnant?
I stumble along the busy sidewalk until the harsh glow of a pharmacy sign comes into view. A bus hisses past, and someone laughs into a phone, as if the world isn’t tilting beneath my feet. The automatic doors whoosh open, releasing a blast of sterile air that smells like antiseptic and plastic.
It only makes me more nauseous.
Fluorescent lights blaze overhead as I grab a basket and force my legs to move down the family-planning aisle. Rows of boxes blend into a dizzying array of colors. Condoms. Ovulation kits. Dozens of pregnancy tests line the shelves in neat, pastel packaging.
My vision swims as I reach out with a hand trembling so badly, I nearly knock half the boxes off the shelf. I grab one and then another, just in case I mess up the first test. My fingers squeeze them like lifelines before tossing both into the basket.
A woman passes by, balancing a toddler on her hip. “Hold still, sweetie,” she murmurs, brushing a curl off the child’s forehead.
For just a moment, I stare as a knot forms in my throat.
I’m not that woman.
I never wanted to be that woman.
My dreams were about independence. Control. About building something no one could take away from me. It wasn’t about diapers and midnight feedings. I don’t want to rely on a man who never promised me anything.
The cashier doesn’t bother looking up as he slides the boxes into a plastic bag with practiced indifference. I hand over my card with clammy fingers and then clutch the bag like contraband the second it’s in my possession.
Outside, I barely feel the wind as it slices through my wool coat.
By the time I reach my apartment, my insides are wound tight, my thoughts a tangled roar in my ears.
I shut the door and lean against it, willing the world to stop spinning for a few minutes.
Just long enough to take this test and reassure myself I’m not pregnant.
My breasts ache as I shrug off my jacket.
It’s a dull, insistent throb that makes me wince.
Stress.
That’s all this is.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I rip open the first box, the cardboard tearing under my nails.
The directions are simple. Pee, wait, look. My hands continue to shake as I unwrap the plastic stick, do what needs to be done, and set it on the counter. The timer on my phone glows beside it.
A silent countdown.
Three minutes that feel more like an eternity.
I pace the cramped area of the bathroom with my arms crossed, all the while bargaining with the universe.
It’ll be negative.
It has to be.
Tomorrow, I’ll laugh about this.
Seconds crawl by.
Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.
When the timer chimes, I flinch so hard my phone nearly hits the floor. My stomach hollows and I press a hand to it, as if that’ll be enough to hold myself steady.
And then I look.
Two pink lines stare back at me, impossible to deny.
Air rushes from my lungs as the world tilts again. When my knees threaten to buckle, I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself.
“No, no, no…” The thin, broken sound tumbles out as the test trembles in my hand.
I’m pregnant.
The truth roars through me until it’s impossible to think about anything else.
I’m pregnant with Oliver “Big O” Van Doren’s child.
I sink to the floor and my back hits the cool cabinet, my legs refusing to hold me up any longer.
I should’ve known better.
Tears sting my eyes, but they don’t fall. I press both palms to my face, pulling in air until the panic loosens its grip.
A memory surfaces of my mom standing in the doorway the night Dad left, her voice steady while her hands shook.
This is why you take care of yourself, Rina. Because no one else will do it for you.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe that’s what this is.
The universe reminding me to never let anyone close enough to break me.
Except… I already have.
I glance at the test again, the lines bright and bold under the harsh lights.
And the worst part?
Somewhere deep inside, buried under the icy panic clawing at my chest, there’s a whisper that refuses to be silenced. A fragile truth I don’t want to acknowledge.
A piece of me will always belong to him. And vice versa. We will forever be entangled.
I sit on the cold tile long after the timer stops chiming, the test still clutched in my hand.
When my phone buzzes again, I glance at it.
Oliver’s name glows on the screen like a ghost I want to hide from. Instead of responding, I flip it over, silencing the vibration, and press a palm against my stomach.
I just need a little bit of time.
To think.
To figure out how to tell the man who can ruin me with a single look that everything in our lives is about to change.