Chapter 3
CECIE
Three weeks later, I'm staring at two pink lines and wondering if the universe has a sick sense of humor.
Of course. Of course the one time I throw caution to the wind and sleep with a mysterious motorcycle orc, I end up knocked up. This is what I get for trying to have one spontaneous, romantic night.
The test teeters on the edge of my bathroom sink, mocking me with its cheerful little plus sign.
"Fuck."
My voice echoes off the tiles. The pop-up stall doesn't have a bathroom, so I'm in the plaza's public restroom, sitting on a toilet lid at seven in the morning before anyone else arrives. Professional. Dignified. Exactly how I pictured finding out I'm going to be a mother.
I grab the test, wrap it in half a roll of toilet paper, and shove it deep into my bag. Then I wash my hands three times because apparently that's what pregnant people do now. Clean things. Obsessively.
Ridge.
His face swims up in my memory. Those shoulders. That grin. The way he'd looked at me like I was the only person in the room worth noticing.
And then he vanished like smoke.
I tried looking for him. Spent two days after that night casually asking around the plaza if anyone knew a guy named Ridge. Got nothing but blank stares and a few suggestions to try the Iron Horse, the orc bar three blocks over.
So I went.
The Iron Horse smelled like leather and hops and something indefinably orc that made my stomach flip. Not unpleasant. Just... intense. The bartender, a woman with biceps like tree trunks and a nose ring that could double as a weapon, listened to my description with increasing amusement.
"Motorcycle Ridge? Tattoos?" She'd laughed, not unkindly. "Honey, that sounds like someone's Halloween costume. We get a lot of guys trying to look tougher than they are. No one by that name's a regular."
Dead end.
I thanked her, bought a ginger ale I didn't drink, and walked home feeling like an idiot.
Now I'm pregnant with a stranger's baby and the only things I know about him are that his name probably isn't Ridge, he definitely isn't a regular at the orc bar, and he has a truly impressive collection of fake tattoos.
Great foundation for co-parenting, I think grimly.
The door to the restroom swings open. I grab my bag and exit the stall with as much dignity as a woman can muster when she's just peed on a stick in a public bathroom.
Outside, the plaza is starting to wake up. Colum's finance office has lights on. The coffee shop is brewing its first batch. My pop-up stall sits in its usual corner, waiting for me to set up the folding table and arrange my samples into something Instagram-worthy.
I pause halfway across the tile floor.
You could end this.
The thought arrives uninvited. Clinical. I'm early enough that it would be simple. Safe. No one would need to know.
But even as I think it, my hand moves to my stomach.
Nope.
I don't know why. Can't explain it logically. I've built a business out of nothing, survived on ramen and determination, and spent three years proving I don't need anyone's help.
A baby should terrify me.
It does terrify me.
But somewhere under the terror is something else. Something stubborn and warm and utterly irrational.
Mine.
I'm keeping him. Her. Them. Whatever this cluster of cells decides to become.
And I'm doing it alone, because apparently that's my brand now.
The first trimester is hell disguised as exhaustion.
I wake up nauseous, spend my mornings trying not to vomit on customers, and go home to pass out by eight PM.
My pop-up stall, now moved to the Heights over Poplar Springs, becomes a test of endurance.
I learn to keep saltines in my apron pocket and breath mints on my folding table because apparently pregnancy makes you smell everything.
The woman who buys my hibiscus and rosewater face mist? She reeks of tuna salad. It's my best seller—the scent I wear every day—but even it can't mask that..
The guy who wants beard oil recommendations? His cologne could strip paint.
Even the coffee shop three stalls over becomes my nemesis. The scent of espresso makes me gag so hard I have to take my breaks outside, sitting on the curb like a teenager cutting class.
Lydia notices.
Of course she does. The woman, my neighbor and friend, has the observational skills of a particularly nosy hawk.
"You feeling alright?" She catches me one morning as I'm setting up, eyeing the green tinge to my skin with concern that's almost maternal.
"Fine. Just tired."
"You look like you're about to hurl into that glitter display."
"Charming as always, Lyd."
She doesn't push, but he starts bringing me ginger tea. Leaves it on the corner of her table without comment, like she's feeding a stray cat. I'd be annoyed if I wasn't so grateful.
By week twelve, I tell her .
Not because I want to. Because she asks directly, point-blank, during a slow Tuesday afternoon when no one's around to overhear.
"You're pregnant."
It's not a question.
I stop arranging lip glosses and look at her . "How'd you know?"
"You've been drinking ginger tea for six weeks, you won't go near the coffee shop, and you cried last Thursday when someone bought your last lavender scrub. You never cry over inventory."
"It was limited edition."
"Cecie."
I sigh. "Yeah. I'm pregnant."
"And the father?"
"Not in the picture."
Lydia's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes sharpens. "Does he know?"
"Can't tell someone who doesn't exist."
"Everyone exists. You have a name, a number—"
"I have a fake name and nothing else. It was one night. He's gone. End of story."
Lydia watches me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Alright. What do you need?"
The question catches me off-guard. Not what are you going to do or are you sure about this or any of the other things I've been bracing for.
Just: what do you need?
I blink back something that might be tears and blame hormones. "Nothing. I'm good."
"Liar."
"I'm handling it."
"I don't doubt that for a second. But handling it and having help aren't mutually exclusive." She taps the table, decisive. "You need better hours. Can't be on your feet ten hours a day much longer. And you'll need a real storefront before the baby comes. Pop-up's not going to work with an infant."
"I can't afford—"
"There's a space opening up. Suite 103. Ground floor at Poplar Springs Plaza. Good foot traffic. I know the landlord."
"Lydia—"
"Consider it an investment. You're good for business. People come for the glitter, stay for the financial advice." She grins. "Symbiotic relationship."
I want to argue. Want to tell her I can do this myself, that I've always done everything myself. But a permanent space at Poplar Springs Plaza sparks my interest.
My feet ache, my back hurts, and the idea of a real space with a bathroom and a door I can close sounds like heaven.
"I'll pay rent."
"Obviously."
"And I'm not taking charity."
"Colum wouldn't dream of it. You'll sign a lease like everyone else. I'll just make sure the landlord knows you're reliable."
I study her face, looking for the catch. There's always a catch with people like Colum, charismatic businessmen who collect favors like trading cards.
"How do you know Colum so well?"
Lydia grins. "My cleaning business. I clean his firm. Hear the gossip. And oh, I may have had a few drinks with Colum myself." She winks at me.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Now go home. You look like death warmed over. I'll help iron out the deets for your permanent shop."
"You really know how to flatter a girl."
"It's a gift."
I move into suite 103 at five months, with Lydia's help.
By then, I'm definitely showing. Can't hide it anymore behind loose shirts and strategic layering. The bump announces itself to the world, and I've stopped caring who notices.
Let them stare.
Let them whisper about the single mom-to-be running a beauty supply shop.
I've got a lease, a growing inventory, and a business plan that involves expanding into online sales before the baby arrives. No time for shame.
The storefront is small but mine. White walls I immediately start covering with removable decals of giant lipstick prints, glitter bursts, motivational quotes about sparkle being a lifestyle choice.
The front window becomes my canvas. I paint "Sparkle Beauty" in looping pink script and add a tagline: Glow Up or Go Home.
Colum stops by on opening day with a potted succulent and a card that reads "Congratulations on Your Legitimate Business Venture."
"Subtle."
"I thought so." He surveys the space with approval. "You need shelving."
"On the list."
"And better lighting. That fluorescent situation is tragic."
"Also on the list."
"A chair that doesn't look like it came from a dentist's waiting room in 1987."
"It's vintage."
"It's criminal." But he's smiling. "You did good, Sparkle."
By month seven, I've hired a part-time employee, a college student named Maren who's excellent with customers and doesn't ask intrusive questions about my personal life. She handles afternoon shifts while I work mornings and prep inventory in the back room.
The back room becomes my nest.
I stack boxes of sheet masks like building blocks, organize lipsticks by color family, and keep a mini-fridge stocked with string cheese and orange juice.
There's a folding chair I've claimed as my throne, and I spend lunch breaks with my feet up, eating crackers and scrolling through parenting forums on my phone.
The forums terrify me.
Everyone seems to know exactly what they're doing. They have nurseries planned, baby showers scheduled, partners who attend birthing classes and discuss feeding schedules.
I have a glitter-covered storefront and a pile of onesies I bought on clearance.
But I also have a name.
Orry.
It comes to me at three AM during month eight, when I can't sleep because the baby's using my bladder as a trampoline. I'm lying in bed, hands on my stomach, feeling the little thumps and rolls that mean he's awake too.
Orry.