13. Clover
Fuck.
I’m so fucking fucked.
I blink. Stare down at it harder. Blink again. Swear I’ll never complain about anything ever again if this one thing goes how I need it to.
Yeah, no.
There are still two pink lines on the fucking pregnancy test clutched in my hands.
This can't be happening.
I refuse.
It cannot.
I set the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter with fingers that won't stop shaking and grip the edge of the sink to keep myself from just keeling over because I can’t life anymore. The white-knuckle hold I have on the porcelain is the only thing keeping me upright right now.
"Shit. Shit. Shit ." I mutter to my reflection like it’s her fault instead of mine we’re in this situation.
But joke’s on me—there’s no one to blame but this idiot right here.
I'm pregnant. With Banks Priestly's baby .
Honestly?
I don’t even know how to begin to process this.
Banks . My temporary roommate. My brother's hotter than anyone I’ve ever met and has real life abs best friend. The guy who whispered all those dirty words with his mouth on my skin six weeks ago. Of course then I pushed him away because I’m an asshole and couldn’t cope with the consequences of what we did or how it made me feel.
I’ve regretted it for the last six weeks and now the joke’s on me. I’ve got enough consequences to deal with to literally last a lifetime and not a single shoulder to cry on.
I sink down to the floor as I do something I haven’t let myself do in six weeks—I think back to that night. The one where we couldn't keep our hands off each other long enough to think about basic protection.
Ugh. How could we be so stupid?
I close my eyes but that just makes it worse because now I'm seeing it all in crystal fucking clear high def—Banks pinning me to the wall, his teeth scraping along my neck, marking me. The way we practically tore each other's clothes off. His voice all gravelly in my ear, telling me how he’s wanted this for so long, Freckles while he pushed inside me. The way I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, begging for more more more while neither of us even breathed the word "condom" because we were too busy drowning in each other.
And now here I am. Sitting on my bathroom floor staring at the result of that night. Two pink lines that are about to change everything.
The nausea that's been kicking my ass for two weeks rolls through me again. I've been lying to myself—telling myself it was stress or maybe food poisoning or literally anything other than what it obviously is. But the missed period? Boobs that hurt so bad even breathing makes them ache? I'm an idiot for not connecting the dots sooner.
No one can know about this. Not until I figure out what the hell I'm going to do. Not until I work out how to tell Banks that our "onetime mistake" just turned into the most permanent thing either of us will ever do.
“Stupid hot alphahole firefighter,” I mutter to Bellini, the jade plant that lives on the bathroom windowsill. “This is his fault for being so irresistible. I blame him.”
My phone buzzes, and I see text pop up from Navy.
Navy: Where are you? Theo's asking, but I covered for you. Just let me know if you’re okay.
Double shit. I'm beyond late for my shift at Ember. I drag myself up off the floor, splash ice-cold water on my face, and try to pull myself together. Like I can somehow wash away the fact that my entire life plan just went poof .
"You can do this," I tell my reflection, trying to sound convincing. "You're Clover fucking James. You've survived worse."
The woman in the mirror stares back at me with red-rimmed eyes that call me a liar.
Four hours into my shift at Ember, and I'm barely keeping it together.
The nausea hits me in waves, each one worse than the last. I've been choking back vomit every few minutes while mixing drinks and pretending everything's normal. I’m popping Altoids every couple of minutes because the mint is the only thing that keeps me from puking, but I’ve had a few near misses.
And the stupid tin is already down to less than a quarter left.
My smile feels like it's been painted on with cheap Halloween makeup. It’s fake as hell and probably terrifying if you look too close. Like a clown.
Yep, that’s me. A clown.
It's Friday night, so of course we're completely slammed. Every seat at the bar is taken, and the high-tops are packed with groups of women ordering those complicated Instagram-worthy cocktails that take forever to make. Navy and I move around each other while we work, but I can tell she's watching me.
Imagine what she’d say if I lose the battle (or my Altoids run out) and throw up in one of the trashcans back here behind the bar.
I take a deep breath in through my nose and slowly blow it out of my mouth and try to focus on anything other than the smell of alcohol and sickeningly sweet juice mixing in the most disgusting way imaginable. How did I never notice how horrible it smells back here?
"You seriously look like death," she whispers as we pass each other behind the bar. "And that's the fourth time you've disappeared to the bathroom."
"It’s just something I ate," I lie, pouring tequila for a banana margarita that I'm one hundred percent sure is going to make me vomit. Who the fuck orders a banana margarita? I gag but try to hide it with a cough. My hands are shaking so bad I almost miss the glass. "Not a big deal."
It’s the biggest deal.
I want to tell her so bad, but it wouldn’t be fair to tell her before I tell Banks, right? Or maybe I should just confess, and she can help me work through what the hell I’m gonna do.
She narrows her eyes at me in that way that says she's not buying what I'm selling, but thankfully we're too slammed for her to interrogate me the way she normally would.
I make it another forty-five minutes before the strongest wave of nausea yet hits me like a wrecking ball. There's no fighting this one.
"Be right back," I barely manage to choke out in Navy’s direction before I'm literally sprinting for the employee bathroom, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattle. I don't even have time to lock it before I'm on my knees, violently emptying my stomach into the toilet.
I'm still heaving when the door creaks open behind me. Navy doesn't say a word, just crouches beside me and gathers my hair back from my sweaty face with one hand while the other rubs circles on my back. Tears burn my eyes when I remember Banks doing this exact same thing two weeks ago the first time this happened.
"Just something you ate, huh?" she says when I finally stop heaving. There's no judgment in her voice, just concern.
When I'm sure there's nothing left in my stomach to come up, I collapse back against the wall, completely drained. The cold tile feels amazing against my sweaty skin. I close my eyes because I can't look at her. Can't face what I know she's already figured out because Navy's always been too damn smart for her own good.
"So," she says quietly. "How far along are you?"
My eyes open but they’re so damn heavy. I barely have it in me to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about or that I don’t want to curl up against my bestie and pour out the entire story. "What?"
"Clover." She sits down next to me on the grimy bathroom floor—without laying down a paper towel first, which tells me how worried she actually is. Her face is dead serious, not a trace of her usual snark. "I've known you for four years. I can tell the difference between food poisoning and this . Plus, you're running to the bathroom every five minutes and you literally dry heaved when Jim Kearney walked by with his cologne that you normally like." She raises an eyebrow. "I mix drinks for a living, but contrary to popular belief, that doesn't make me an idiot."
The tears I've been fighting all day finally break free. Once they start, it's like someone turned on a faucet I don't know how to shut off.
"Six weeks," I whisper, my voice breaking. Saying it out loud makes it real in a way that even those two pink lines didn't. "I found out this afternoon."
Navy doesn't look shocked. Not even a little bit. She just nods and takes my hand, squeezing it tight enough that I feel anchored to something solid when everything else is spinning out of control.
"Banks?" she asks.
I can't even get words out. Just nod and sob harder, which is super cute and professional in the employee bathroom of the bar I'm supposed to be running right now.
"Have you told him yet?"
"Are you kidding me?" The laugh that bursts out of me sounds borderline unhinged and it’s snotty and gross, too. "I'm still trying to convince myself this isn't some horrible joke. How am I supposed to tell him? What am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know—maybe 'Banks, I'm pregnant with your baby'? Short, sweet, gets the point across." She's trying to make me laugh, but the reality of what I'm facing sobers me up real quick.
"He's going to think I trapped him," I whisper, finally giving voice to the fear that's been clawing at my insides since I saw those two lines. "This is Banks Priestly we're talking about. Mr. No-Strings-Attached. Mr. I-Don't-Do-Relationships. He definitely doesn't do babies ." I wrap my arms around my stomach, this weird protective instinct I didn't know I had kicking in. "And we both agreed that night was a mistake. A onetime thing that shouldn't have happened."
Navy rolls her eyes. "Yeah, because you two are just so good at being honest with yourselves and each other." She grabs my shoulders and makes me look her in the eye. "Listen to me, Clover James. That man looks at you like you personally hung the stars in the sky just so he'd have something pretty to look at. And you’re no better. If he walks away from this—from you—then he's not who I think he is. And you?" She tightens her grip. "You’re the strongest person I know. You’ve got this."
Her unwavering belief in me just makes me cry harder. "I don't know if I can do this," I sob out.
"You absolutely can." She squeezes my shoulders. "But here's the thing—you don't have to do it alone. Whatever happens with Banks, you've got me. And Kasen."
Oh god. Kasen . My stomach drops all over again.
How the hell am I going to tell my overprotective big brother that his best friend knocked me up? He's going to murder Banks and then lock me in a tower somewhere.
"Hey, one disaster at a time," Navy says, clearly reading the panic on my face. "First, talk to Banks. Then you two can figure out how to deal with your brother."
She helps me stand up on my wobbly legs and grabs a paper towel, wetting it in the sink before handing it to me. "I'm covering the rest of your shift. Go home, get some sleep, and figure out what you're going to say to Firefighter Hottie. And for the love of god brush your goddamn teeth."
I snort out a watery laugh. "I can't just bail on you—"
"Yes, you absolutely can. I already texted Chris to come in early, and Theo thinks you have food poisoning." She's basically shoving me toward the door. "Go. Home. Clover."
I don't have the energy to fight her on this. Or anything, really. I just nod and grab my purse from the office, then slip out the back door of Ember into the night.
The fifteen-minute walk home is pure torture. My thoughts chase themselves in circles, each one more panicked than the last. What if he freaks out? What if he leaves? What if he wants to be involved but doesn't want me? What if he actually wants both of us?
That last one scares me the most.