Chapter 20
Then
Istared at the pregnancy test in shock.
I’d already been in the bathroom for several minutes, frozen in place while my heart pounded in my ears, and I still couldn’t seem to process what my eyes were seeing.
I squinted at the plastic stick, as though blurring my vision might change the result, but the bright blue plus sign continued to stare back at me defiantly, clear as a cloudless Seafolly sky: Pregnant.
The weeks since wrapping The Lost Letter had been a whirlwind.
I’d been back in LA for a month, settling into the apartment I’d temporarily rented in a high-rise luxury tower just off Sunset in the Hollywood Hills.
I’d only signed a short-term lease since I’d just inked the contract for my next film, an offbeat dramedy that was set to start shooting in two months in Vancouver.
Between the chaos of moving and taking as many meetings as Joanne could schedule for me while my name was “hot,” a missed period hadn’t even made it onto my radar.
It wasn’t until I was on the phone with Kendall and she made an offhanded comment about her own PMS that the question smacked me in the face: When was my last period?
Maybe it’s a false positive, I told myself for the hundredth time as I avoided eye contact with several other women currently seated in my OB-GYN’s waiting room.
When I first walked in, I’d noticed one in particular studying me a bit too closely as she gently rocked her newborn, and I said a silent prayer that this would not be the place I’d be recognized for the first time.
Thankfully, I was called back quickly. The intake nurse took my vitals and had me pee in a cup, then asked me a series of questions, including if I knew when I’d conceived.
When I stammered that I wasn’t sure, my mind reeling as I tried to recall when Ryder and I had been together over those last few hectic weeks, she patted my arm kindly.
“No worries,” she said as she removed the blood pressure cuff, her relaxed smile a soothing balm. “The doctor will be able to tell you.”
Sure enough, she was. “Based on how baby is measuring, it appears you’re almost eight weeks along,” Dr. Holman said briskly as she conducted the ultrasound with practiced efficiency.
She studied the monitor intently, freezing the screen every few moments to take a picture or detailed measurement, her calm composure in direct contrast to my mounting panic.
Eight weeks along. How was it possible that I’d been pregnant for two months and hadn’t known it?
I did the math in my head, trying to remember where we’d been eight weeks ago, but my memories were a jumbled blur, scrambled and scattered and all out of order.
All I knew was we’d been in Seafolly, blissfully in love and daydreaming about our future…
and completely unaware that everything had already changed.
This little raspberry-sized human had already been making a home in my belly while Ryder and I were busy making plans and pledging allegiance to our three-week rule.
The three-week rule we haven’t stuck to.
Nausea surged in my stomach, the sour sting of bile burning the back of my throat. This tiny, windowless room felt like it was closing in on me, and I started to worry I might pass out. Guess it was a good thing I was already in a doctor’s office.
“Shall we see if we can get baby’s heartbeat, mom?” Dr. Holman said brightly, oblivious to my impending meltdown. “We can sometimes hear it by eight weeks, but no need to panic if we don’t.” She didn’t wait for an answer, which was good, since I’d gone entirely mute.
She squirted my stomach with cold gel then pressed the wand firmly into my abdomen, applying some pressure as she slid it around a bit, searching for the right spot.
It seemed like she was having some trouble until suddenly, the unmistakable whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound of a heartbeat filled the room.
It was so overwhelming, so completely foreign and intense and awe-inspiring, that whatever thread had been holding me together snapped, the tears I’d barely been holding back instantly overflowing.
I couldn’t draw a full breath as the sound filled my ears, loud and strong and impossibly real.
I was terrified and moved and so desperate for Ryder I could hardly breathe.
I didn’t know how to do this without him.
I covered my face with my hands and wept, the enormity of the moment hitting me all at once.
Dr. Holman paused, her cheerful expression fading into one of concern. She withdrew the probe and passed me a wad of paper towels to soak up the gel on my stomach, then handed me a few tissues.
She placed a hand on my arm. “Take a couple of deep breaths,” she instructed, then waited patiently while I settled myself down.
“I take it this pregnancy was unplanned?” she asked gently, once the flow of tears had subsided and I was breathing semi-normally again.
I nodded numbly, mute.
“Is there a father in the picture?”
I managed another small nod.
After assuring her that I was in a safe situation at home and didn’t need a referral for a crisis pregnancy center, I left the office in a daze, a pack of prenatal vitamins and a copy of the ultrasound clutched to my chest.
Ryder and I are pregnant.
Although I suppose technically, I was pregnant. Ryder was out there going about his day, blithely unaware that our lives as we knew them had changed forever. How was I going to tell him? We didn’t even have a trip on the calendar. Could I even keep this a secret until I saw him?
Yes, I decided. There was no way I could tell him something this monumental, this fundamentally life-changing, over the phone. A surprise pregnancy wasn’t the kind of news I could casually drop on one of our nightly FaceTime calls.
What’d you have for lunch? I imagined him asking as he brushed his teeth, getting ready for bed while I knocked around my kitchen making dinner.
A Greek salad, but they added way too many olives. And even though I usually love olives, I’m learning they make me nauseous while pregnant. Also, surprise! I’m having your baby.
No, this was in-person news. There wasn’t much I felt sure of at the moment, but I knew I needed to see the look in his eyes when I told him he was going to be a father.
Though I was nervous about how he’d take it, it felt vital to get his honest reaction—it was the only way I’d know if we were going to make it through this.
So as hard as it was, I resigned myself to holding it in and behaving as normally as possible until then.
It was easier said than done. At eight weeks, morning sickness (which I soon learned was actually all-day sickness, an outrageous lie) hit me full force, to the point where I could barely peel myself off the couch.
My initial concern about gaining weight seemed almost quaint now that I couldn’t keep anything down.
To make matters worse, my migraines ramped up, an apparently common side effect of my whipsawing hormones.
Feigning normalcy with everyone around me—Ryder, Joanne, my family, et cetera—felt like a full-time performance, demanding more from me than any role I’d ever played.
And then there were the professional ramifications.
Before I knew about the pregnancy, I’d just finished signing the paperwork for my next project, creating a tricky situation I had no idea how to navigate.
I’d be more than four months along when we started shooting—I had to think I’d be showing by then, and a leading lady with a basketball belly was definitely not who they’d hired.
Was I legally required to disclose I was expecting?
Could they sue me for breach of contract?
If they fired or replaced me, could I sue them?
I had no idea where to turn for answers, and asking Joanne felt too risky.
While she represented me and had a duty to me as her client, I wasn’t na?ve enough to think I was her only priority.
She had her own relationship with the studio to protect, and when push came to shove, she had her own bills to pay.
And then there was Ryder.
It had been more than a month since we’d last seen each other.
We’d parted ways in Seafolly with our three-week plan in place and the best of intentions, but life quickly got in the way.
First, I had to prioritize finding an apartment and moving—no small feat when Joanne had me running all over town for screen tests and general meetings with producers and studio execs.
For Ryder’s part, he soon learned that Graham Stroud ran a much less structured set than Nate.
His shooting schedule was highly unpredictable—he might be slotted to film one day, only to find the timetable changed at the last minute, forcing him to shoot nights or make up time on the weekends.
And when he finally did get a few days off, I sucked it up and encouraged him to fly down to Florida to be with his mom instead.
She’d started her cancer treatments, and I knew how guilty he felt for not being there.
As much as I missed him, I refused to be clingy or possessive when I knew Nora needed him more than me.
I was quickly learning that dating long distance was nothing like you saw in the movies.
It sounded romantic in theory—late-night calls, handwritten letters, counting down the days until you’d meet again—but the reality was far less rosy.
I ended up curating my life into neat little updates, sanitized and performative, editing out the loneliness I carried around like a constant companion.