13. Avery
Chapter thirteen
Avery
Ifeel like absolute shit. My body aches, my head is pounding, and my stomach… well, my stomach is definitely plotting against me. I barely have time to throw back the covers before a wave of nausea hits me so hard that I have no choice but to make a run for it.
The bathroom floor is cold against my knees as I drop down in front of the toilet. My stomach heaves, and I grip the bowl, retching so violently that my ribs protest.
Nothing but bile comes up, but it doesn’t stop. My throat burns, my body shudders, and I squeeze my eyes shut, praying for it to be over.
Eventually, it stops, leaving me gasping, my forehead resting against my arm. I sit for a second, gathering myself, before forcing my shaky legs to stand.
Making my way to the sink, I twist on the tap and splash cold water onto my face. I catch my reflection. Jesus. I’m pale with dark circles under my eyes, and my hair a disaster.
I open the cabinet above the sink, looking for anything that might help—painkillers, vitamins, whatever. My fingers hover over a bottle of multivitamins, but the thought of swallowing anything right now makes my stomach churn again.
That’s when I see them. Tampons.
My mind does a quick calculation, and then another, just to be sure. A week late. No, more than a week. And I am never late. I could set my damn calendar by my period.
A wave of cold panic washes over me.
No. No, no, no. I can’t be.
I lean in closer to the mirror, stretching my eyes wide like that’s going to tell me anything useful.
Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s just a weird cycle. Maybe—no. I need to know for sure. I need to do a test.
I drag myself back into my bedroom and strip off my clothes, tossing them into the laundry basket. Then I remember—most of my clothes are still at Gray’s estate. And just like that, another wave of something entirely different crashes over me.
Embarrassment. Humiliation. That same hot, mortifying feeling that’s been haunting me since last night.
First things first. Shower. Then test. Then—maybe—I should face the music and call him. I’m going to have to speak to him eventually. And despite everything, I still want him.
No. I mustn’t. But I do. I have wanted him for so freaking long. And now, this. Damn it. Why is life so complicated?
As for working there again? Not a chance in hell. That ship has well and truly sailed. I think.
Maddie’s little face flashes in my mind, and my chest tightens.
Shoving my thoughts aside, I step into the shower, keeping it quick. The hot water washes away the worst of my grogginess, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for the chaos in my head. I dry off, wrap myself in a towel, and open my closet.
Great. Practically empty.
I grab whatever I can find—jeans, a plain top, sneakers— and throw them on, pick up my bag, and head downstairs.
Popping my head into the kitchen, I find Dad at the table, reading the newspaper over a plate of breakfast.
“Morning, sweetheart.” He barely glances up. “Hungry?”
The smell of bacon and eggs hits me like a freight train. My stomach turns so hard I have to swallow back another wave of nausea.
I step forward and kiss the top of his head. “No thanks, Dad. I need to head out.”
I’m halfway out the door when he calls after me. “So, have you decided what you’re gonna—”
I don’t let him finish. The door clicks shut behind me before he can get the words out.
The fresh air helps. A little. It’s cool against my skin, and I take a deep breath, trying to settle the rolling nausea still lurking in my stomach. My feet carry me forward automatically, but my brain is a mess.
Late. I’m late. And not in the ‘Oops, I overslept and missed my alarm’ way. In the ‘Holy shit, my period is missing and could possibly never return’ way.
I keep walking, passing familiar houses, the small park at the end of our street, and the same old convenience store with the faded blue awning. And then, finally—Westgreens.
I step inside, the scent of disinfectant and something vaguely medicinal hitting me immediately. A couple of people are browsing, one woman inspecting the cold medicine, an elderly man squinting at a bottle of vitamins. Nobody’s paying attention to me. Good.
I head straight for the family planning aisle, my pulse drumming in my ears. There they are. Pregnancy tests lined up in neat little rows. Some promising fast results, others claiming digital readouts, all of them screaming one thing at me—potential disaster.
I grab one without thinking, barely glancing at the brand. They all do the same thing, right? Just tell me if my life is about to explode or not.
At the counter, the cashier—a teenage boy who looks barely old enough to work here—scans it without comment. But his eyes flick to me for a second, and I swear I see the corners of his mouth twitch.
Not today, kid.
I snatch the bag from the counter, mutter a quick “Thanks,” and get the hell out.
The walk back feels longer, like my legs have decided to drag out the moment as much as possible. The whole time, the little box in my bag feels like it’s gaining weight, pressing down on my shoulder like an anvil.
By the time I get back, my stomach is in knots. I push open the door, step inside, and, without even stopping to take my shoes off, bolt up the stairs, straight into my room before taking it out of my bag.
The door slams shut behind me and I head straight for the bathroom, gripping the box like it’s some kind of lifeline.
I rip it open, my hands shaking slightly as I unfold the instructions. Pee on the stick. Wait a couple of minutes. Read result. Simple.
Simple, my ass.
I do what I have to do, set the test down on the bathroom counter, then walk out, my heart hammering so loud I can feel it in my throat.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor. Waiting.
A couple of minutes. That’s all. Two tiny little minutes. It shouldn’t feel like an eternity.
I force myself to stand. Walk back into the bathroom. And there it is. Two lines. Two very clear, very undeniable, very oh-shit-my-life-is-over lines.
My stomach lurches. My hands feel numb. My breath catches somewhere between my ribs like it’s refusing to move any further.
OH. MY. GOD. NO. This can’t be happening. But it is. It really is. What a mess!
Buzz-Buzz. The sound jolts me, sharp and intrusive, pulling me out of my downward spiral. Forcing my legs to move, I step out of the bathroom, the test clutched in my damp palm. My fingers are gripping it so tight my knuckles have gone white.
I stare at it for a second before tossing it onto the bed like it just personally insulted me.
I grab my phone. Clara.
Shit.
My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitation tightening my chest. Do I answer? Ignore it? Pretend I’m busy doing literally anything else?
My brain is already a mess, but Clara wouldn’t have just called for a casual chat.
I take a breath and swipe to answer. “Hi, Clara.”
She exhales shakily, her voice brittle. “Avery. Thank God I got hold of you. Listen, there’s been a fire. A big one at the estate last night.”
I freeze. “What? Clara, slow down. What the hell are you talking about?”
I hear her inhale sharply like she’s trying to steady herself. “Gray was in the library. I think he fell asleep. A fire broke out in the old wing. The fire department said something about faulty electrics and Gray… Gray…”
My stomach clenches. “What about Gray? Is he okay? Is Maddie, okay? Are you okay?”
Clara sniffles on the other end. “Maddie and I are fine. We stayed in a hotel last night. But Gray… Avery, his condition is… it’s critical.”
The word slams into me.
Critical. No.
“What?” My voice barely makes it past my throat.
She takes a shaky breath. “I’m staying at my sister’s tonight, but I need you to—”
“What hospital?” I cut her off, pacing now, my mind moving too fast, too slow, all at once. “What ward? And yes, of course, Maddie can stay here.”
“Providence St. Vincent Medical Center in Portland. He’s in the ICU.” Her voice cracks. “I’m here now with Maddie, Beth, and one of Gray’s work colleagues from Pacific Crest.”
I press a hand to my forehead, trying to get my brain to catch up.
Gray. Fire. ICU. Critical.
“I’m leaving now.” My voice quivers. “I’ll see you there. How’s… how’s Maddie?”
Through her tears, Clara says, “Oh, the poor thing. I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
God.
I repeat the hospital name back, firmly, making sure I don’t forget. “Providence St. Vincent Medical Center. ICU. Clara, I’ll see you soon.”
Ending the call, I shove my phone into my bag—then hesitate for a split second before grabbing the test off the bed and stuffing it in there too.
I hurry downstairs, my heart hammering with every step, and sprint into the living room—empty. No sign of Dad.
Kitchen? I rush in, my eyes darting around. Also, empty. He must have gone out.
I linger in the doorway, pulling my phone from my bag with shaky fingers. Uber. Five minutes.
I walk toward the front door, my body practically buzzing with nervous energy. Opening it, I step outside, the air crisp and cool against my face. It feels good. Feels grounding. I need that right now, because my brain? It’s an absolute shit storm.
It doesn’t take long before a car comes down the road, slows, and pulls up in front of the house. I rush toward it, my mind a swirling mess, thoughts crashing into each other like drunk bumper cars.
The moment I slide into the back seat, I clip my seatbelt in and stare out of the window, the world blurring past.
Ten minutes is all that it takes before the hospital appears up ahead and the driver slows as we approach the barrier. He presses a button, and after a brief pause, it lifts. He drives in, maneuvering into a parking spot near the entrance.
“Thanks,” I say quickly, throwing a few extra bucks into the tip before pushing the door open and stepping out.
The hospital stands tall in front of me, impersonal and cold, its windows reflecting the gray sky. The automatic doors slide open as I approach, and I step inside.
The smell hits me first—that sharp mix of antiseptic and overworked air conditioning. The hum of activity is constant—nurses in scrubs rushing past, visitors clutching coffee cups, and the distant beep of machines.
I take a breath, steady myself, and head straight for the front desk.
The receptionist, a woman in her mid-fifties with sharp eyes and an even sharper bob, barely glances up from her screen as she types away furiously.
“Hello.” I clear my throat as my voice wobbles. “I'm Avery Bennett, the live-in nanny for Grayson Hayes' niece. I'm here to see Mr. Hayes. I understand that he's in the ICU.”
That gets her attention. She stops typing and looks up, her expression professional but not unkind. “Of course, Ms. Bennett. Let me check his status. One moment, please.”
Her fingers fly over the keyboard again, and the seconds stretch out, my stomach twisting tighter with each passing one. Then, finally—
“Yes, Mr. Hayes is in ICU Room 4,” she says, reading off the screen. “I'll need to see some ID, and then I'll guide you to his room. Do you have a photo ID with you, such as a driver’s license or passport?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, yanking my purse out of my bag and fumbling for my wallet. My fingers feel clumsy- too jittery to function properly, but I manage to pull out my license and hand it over. “Here it is.”
She takes it, glancing between the card and my face with practiced efficiency. “Thank you, Ms. Bennett. I'll make a quick copy for our records. Please wait here for a moment.”
Wait? Right. Because I’m obviously just so relaxed and composed over here.
I shift on my feet, my arms crossing as I glance around the waiting area, taking in the nervous families, the tired nurses, and the blinking vending machines.
A minute later, the receptionist returns and hands my license back. “Okay, all set. I'll take you to the ICU. Follow me, please.” She pushes back from the desk, and I trail after her toward the elevators.
The ride up is silent. Just the soft ding of passing floors and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.
When the doors slide open, I follow her down the hall, my pulse hammering. The ICU smells sharper than the lobby—sterile, serious. The kind of place where the air itself feels heavier.
At the nurses’ station, the receptionist leans in, speaking quietly with a nurse in pale blue scrubs. They exchange a few words before the receptionist turns back to me with a small smile. “Room four, just down the hall.”
I barely manage a nod before she leaves, and I turn toward the room, every nerve in my body tightening like a stretched wire. Then—
“Avery!”
A blur of blonde curls and a too-small body slams into me, little arms wrapping tight around my waist. Maddie.
“Oh, sweetie,” I breathe, dropping to my knees to hug her properly.
She’s shaking, her little fingers fisting the fabric of my top like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. “I don’t want to lose another parent, Avery.”
Over her shoulder, I see Clara sitting on one of the plastic chairs outside the room, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Next to her is Beth, and a man I don’t recognize who looks up as I meet his gaze.
But right now, all that matters is Gray and Maddie, as I hold her close and whisper the only thing that I can. “I promise that you won’t, sweetheart. I promise that you won’t.”