Chapter 15 Sara
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sara
Laura slides a glass of water into my hand and takes my phone out of the other like I’m a toddler who needs a distraction.
I don’t stop her.
“Okay,” she says, flopping onto the couch beside me. “You’re cut off. No more rereading the same texts like they’re tea leaves.”
“They kind of are,” I mumble. “If you squint, you can almost see the part where he cared.”
Laura gives me a look. “He did care. You’re not crazy.”
I stare down at my lap, at the tiny crack in the water glass that I’ve been running my finger over for the last ten minutes. The silence buzzes in my ears.
I don’t feel crazy.
I feel like someone abandoned in silence by a man who once looked at her as if touching her was the only thing keeping him alive.
One day, I was orbiting his world. Caught in the pull of his gravity, stolen glances, brushed fingertips, heat in every loaded silence.
The next day?
Nothing.
No texts.
No good mornings.
No more Nick at all.
Just a CEO in a suit, perfectly unreadable.
“I texted him Saturday night,” I admit, even though Laura already knows. “Just something casual. Asked if he made it home okay. No response. Then Monday after work, I sent him a link to that article on donor engagement. Thought maybe he’d… I don’t know. Reply to that.”
“Still nothing?”
I shake my head.
“And this week?” she presses. “At work?”
I let out a laugh, but it sounds brittle. “He’s avoided me in the break room. Rescheduled our check-ins. And during the leadership meeting, I made a joke, one he always laughs at, and he didn’t even flinch. Just kept typing like I was background noise.”
Laura winces. “Okay, yeah. That’s… deliberate.”
“Right?” I say, too fast. “It’s not just in my head? I’m not being dramatic?”
“No. You’re being heartbroken,” she says, soft but firm. “And probably gaslit by your own nervous system. Which is normal.”
I stare at the dark screen of my phone on the coffee table.
“Do you think…” I swallow. “Do you think he regrets it? Like maybe it was just… too much too fast, and now he’s panicking and pretending it didn’t happen?”
Laura doesn’t answer right away. I love her for that.
She chews her lip, thinking. Then she says, “I think he’s freaking out emotionally. That man is not built for vulnerability. He probably hasn’t been touched in years by someone who didn’t want something from him. And now you come along and he… melts. You saw it, didn’t you?”
I nod. “It wasn’t just sex, Laura. I know it wasn’t. The way he looked at me…”
“I know,” she says gently.
“But now…” I trail off, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “Now it’s like I don’t exist.”
Laura puts her hand over mine. “You’re not imagining it. He’s pulling away. But that doesn’t mean you imagined what you had. People run when they’re scared. Doesn’t make what they felt any less real.”
I want to believe her.
God, I do.
But when I walk into that office tomorrow, I have to pretend none of it happened.
That I’m okay. That I’m focused. That I’m not cracking open a little more every time he won’t meet my eyes.
I have to sit through meetings and sort schedules and say “yes, Mr. Ashford” with a voice that doesn’t shake.
I have to pretend my heart isn’t shredding with every cold reply and every glance he refuses to meet.
I don’t know how much longer I can do it.
And apparently, neither does my body.
Because two seconds after I say the words, the room tilts.
I press my hand to my stomach. A hot wave rolls through me. Nausea, sharp and sudden, and very much not the emotional kind. My skin goes clammy. I blink hard, trying to focus, but the edges of my vision are already going fuzzy.
“Sara?” Laura sits up straighter. “Hey, you okay?”
“I…” I push off the couch, but my legs barely hold me. “I think I’m gonna be…”
I don’t finish.
I stagger to the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before everything erupts. My stomach twists painfully, ribs threatening to break under the pressure. Tears spill over, uninvited and raw.
Laura’s there a heartbeat later, crouching beside me, pulling my hair back gently. “Okay, okay. That’s it. You’re officially done diagnosing yourself with heartbreak. Something’s off.”
“Stress,” I pant. “Or food poisoning or—”
Laura is already halfway out of the bathroom. “Nope. I’m going to the pharmacy. Do not argue with me.”
I don’t. I can’t.
My body slumps sideways, cheek pressed to the cool tile. I hear the front door close behind her, the click of the lock. And then it’s just me.
Alone.
Curled on the bathroom floor of my best friend’s apartment. Sick, sweating, gutted.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and try to block everything out. But Nick’s face surfaces anyway. That half-smile he only ever gave me. The way his voice dipped when he used my name. The feel of his hand on my waist as if it belonged there.
And now?
He’s gone.
Not technically. Not physically. He’s still showing up to work and sending morning agendas. Still moving through the world like nothing happened.
But for me? Everything has changed.
I curl tighter, nausea simmering again, not just in my stomach but in my chest, in my throat, in the hollow place where all my hopes were living just a week ago.
The bathroom light hums overhead. A speck of lint floats just past my nose. The world hangs silently, cold and unyielding, as if waiting for a punchline I’ll never understand.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. I don’t move.
Then the door opens again, the sound of footsteps and rustling plastic bags.
“Okay,” Laura calls out. “I panic-bought like five different brands because I didn’t know which one was better. Also, ginger chews and electrolyte packets in case this is actually a stomach bug.”
I hear her heading down the hall.
“Also crackers. And saltines. And this weird seaweed thing I don’t remember buying. I blacked out in aisle five, apparently.”
She rounds the corner, breathless and full of chaotic empathy. Sees me still on the floor.
“Oh, babe.”
She kneels again, pushing the bag toward me. Inside: three pregnancy tests.
“For accuracy,” she says softly.
I stare at them, waiting for them to hiss and bite.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I reach for the first one, then pull back. My palm is damp. Cold. Useless.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Laura doesn’t move. “You can. I’ll be right here.”
I nod, pretending to believe her. It changes nothing. Inside, my thoughts spiral, tight, burning, nauseous, every possible outcome shouting over the next in a relentless storm.
I fumble with the box, almost drop the wrapper, finally manage to wrestle the test free.
It takes less than a minute to pee on the stick, but the seconds stretch out, heavy and unbearable. I place the test on the edge of the sink and step back as if it’s a live grenade ready to detonate.
Three minutes.
That’s forever.
I can’t look.
I pace.
I wipe my hands on my thighs, then on a towel, then back on my thighs. Catching my reflection in the mirror makes me flinch. I look hollow, a version of myself fraying at the edges, barely holding together.
“Do you want me to check it?” Laura offers.
“No,” I breathe. “No, I have to…”
I force myself to lean in.
And there it is.
Pregnant.
One word. Clear as day. No ambiguity. No mercy.
I gasp, breath ripping out of me in a sudden rush. Laura stands, her face paling as she takes in my expression. My fingers tremble as I grab the second test and tear it open, desperate for some kind of loophole.
Two pink lines. Bold. Certain. Final.
The third test slips from my fingers, clatters to the floor unopened. It doesn’t matter. I already know.
I’m pregnant.
I clutch the edge of the sink, searching for something solid to hold onto, the version of my life from ten minutes ago. The version where heartbreak was all I had to face.
Now?
I’m heartbroken and pregnant.
A sob rips through me, raw and unguarded. I collapse to the floor, knees giving way under the weight crashing down. My back presses against the cabinet as I curl inward, arms tightening around my stomach, trying to hold myself together against the coming storm.
Laura kneels beside me. No words. Just her hand finding mine, holding steady.
The silence stretches, heavy and complete, ready to consume everything.
“I can’t tell him,” I whisper eventually, voice splintered.
“I know,” she says, gentle as a bruise.
“I don’t even know what to do next.”
“You don’t have to,” she replies. “Not yet.”
But I do.
Because something is already growing inside me.
And it’s not just mine anymore.
It’s his, too.
Even if he’s already gone.