Chapter 21 Bailey
Bailey
For a moment, I forget.
The ceiling above Gretchen's couch is unfamiliar, painted a soft cream instead of the stark white of my apartment. Sunlight streams through curtains I don't recognize.
Then it all comes crashing back.
Daniel's cold eyes. His voice calling me a liability. The pregnancy test still in my purse because I never got the chance to tell him. The door closing behind me with that quiet, final click.
I sit up slowly. Every part of me aches—my head from crying, my back from the lumpy couch, my heart from being shattered into pieces I'm not sure I can put back together.
"You're awake." Gretchen appears with two mugs. "Herbal tea for you. Coffee for me, because I need it."
Dark circles shadow her eyes—I kept her up half the night with my crying.
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. I called in sick." She hands me the tea and curls up in the armchair. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I was hit by a truck."
"That's fair."
I take a sip of tea. It tastes like nothing. Everything tastes like nothing.
"Was any of it real?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "How did I misread everything so badly?"
"It was real." Gretchen's voice is firm. "He's just broken."
"That doesn't make it hurt less."
"I know."
My phone sits on the coffee table, screen dark. I pick it up with shaking hands. Eleven missed calls. Seven texts. I delete them without reading.
Then I open my banking app because I can't avoid reality anymore.
$3,127.42.
The number sits there, accusatory. Rent is due in two weeks. My health insurance through Williams ends in thirty days. The baby is coming in eight months.
"I need to find a job." My voice sounds hollow. "Today."
"Okay." Gretchen doesn't argue, doesn't suggest I take time to process. She just opens her laptop. "Let's do that."
***
By application forty-seven, I've lost count of how many times I've deleted and rewritten my cover letter.
I was recently let go from— Delete.
My previous position ended unexpectedly— Delete.
I'm looking for new opportunities—
"That one," Gretchen says, reading over my shoulder. "Use that."
"It's corporate speak for 'I got fired.'"
"It's survival speak for 'I'm moving forward.'" She squeezes my shoulder. "Just say you're looking for new opportunities."
"You mean lie."
"I mean survive."
I stare at the screen. Luna's Coffee. Barista position. $12/hour plus tips.
From lead designer at a billion-dollar company to serving coffee for minimum wage.
My finger hovers over the submit button.
"There's no shame in any honest work," Gretchen says quietly.
"Tell that to my ego."
But I hit submit anyway. Because pride is a luxury I can't afford, and my bank account doesn't care about my feelings.
The response comes within an hour.
Thank you for your interest. Can you come in for an interview tomorrow at 10 AM?
Tomorrow. They want to see me tomorrow.
I'm going to be a barista.
***
Ross, the manager of Luna's Coffee, has kind eyes and the weary look of someone who's seen too many overqualified applicants in my exact position.
"You designed for Williams Ventures." He glances at my resume. "That's impressive. So why do you want to work here?"
Because I'm pregnant and desperate. Because my savings will last maybe three months. Because I need health insurance and the man I loved destroyed me.
"I'm looking for a change. Something more hands-on."
He studies me like he can see through every word. "You're overqualified for this position."
"I need a job. You need an employee. Does the rest matter?"
Something shifts in his expression. "Fair enough. When can you start?"
"Tomorrow."
He nods. "You got kids? Boyfriend? Anything that'll make scheduling difficult?"
Something sharp lodges behind my sternum. "No."
Not technically a lie.
"Training starts at six AM. Wear comfortable shoes."
I shake his hand and sign the paperwork with trembling fingers.
$12/hour. Roughly $25,000 a year if I can get full-time hours.
I used to make $85,000.
***
My first shift starts before sunrise.
The morning sickness hits hard as I'm getting dressed. I barely make it to Gretchen's bathroom in time. When I emerge, pale and shaking, she's waiting with crackers and ginger ale.
"You sure you're okay to work?"
"I don't have a choice."
The Luna's uniform is simple—black pants, white shirt, green apron. I stare at myself in the mirror. Dark circles. Hollow eyes. Hair pulled back because I don't have energy for anything else.
This is my life now.
Ross trains me on the register, the espresso machine, the dozens of small tasks that make a coffee shop run. My feet ache within an hour. By noon, my legs are screaming and my feet feel like they might fall off.
"You okay?" My coworker Maya asks. She has bright pink hair and a nose ring. "You look really pale."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you look like you're about to—"
I'm already running for the bathroom.
I throw up twice, splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. Twelve weeks pregnant. Working as a barista. Everything I'd built—gone.
When I come back, Maya hands me a water bottle. "Take ten. Sit down."
"I'm fine—"
"You're clearly not. Ross's orders."
I sink into the chair in the back room, sipping water, palm pressed to my belly. The slight curve is impossible to ignore now. Soon I'll have to tell Ross. Get maternity clothes. Figure out what happens when I can't stand for eight-hour shifts.
One problem at a time.
Around 2 PM, someone walks in who makes my stomach drop.
Sarah from marketing at Williams.
She scans the menu, doesn't see me at first. Then recognition flashes across her face. Her eyes widen, travel from my face to the apron to the register and back.
"Bailey?" Shock, then something worse—pity. "Oh my god, I didn't know you worked here."
"Just started." I keep my voice level, professional. The same tone I used to use in conference rooms. "What can I get you?"
"I'm so sorry about what happened at Williams." She lowers her voice like we're sharing a secret. Like this is somehow intimate instead of humiliating. "Everyone was shocked. Are you okay?"
"Grande latte?" I position my fingers over the register, waiting.
"Oh. Right. Yes. Grande latte." She fumbles for her wallet. Leaves a ten-dollar bill for a five-dollar drink.
The pity tip is somehow worse than her shock.
I make her drink with hands that won't stop shaking, hyperaware of her watching me. When I hand it over, she touches my arm.
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
I force a smile. "You too."
She leaves, and I stand there gripping the counter, deep breaths.
This is my life now.
***
Day three after the breakup, my phone rings.
Daniel.
I don't answer.
Day four: eleven missed calls. Twenty-three texts. All some variation of "please" and "sorry" and "let me explain."
I block his number.
Day five: flowers delivered to Gretchen's apartment. Two dozen white roses—the kind he sent after our first real date, back when everything felt possible. I hand them to Gretchen without reading the card.
"What should I do with these?"
"Keep them. Throw them away. I don't care."
She keeps them. I pretend not to notice them dying on her kitchen counter—petals browning, water going murky. A perfect metaphor.
Day seven: he shows up at the apartment.
I hear his voice through the door—low, desperate, nothing like the cold stranger who destroyed me.
"Please. Just five minutes. I need to explain—"
Gretchen, bless her, doesn't even open the door. "She doesn't want to see you."
Silence.
Then footsteps. Retreating.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, and I don't cry. I'm too angry to cry.
Day nine: a letter slipped under the door.
I rip it up without reading.
Day twelve: another letter.
By week two, the attempts space out. Fewer calls. No more flowers. The harassment turns into haunting—less aggressive, but somehow more painful. The silence between attempts stretches longer each time.
I tell myself it's a good thing.
It feels like abandonment.
***
I've been lying on Gretchen's couch for two hours, watching shadows move across the cream-colored ceiling. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and occasional traffic outside.
My body aches everywhere—feet from standing all day, back from the lumpy couch, heart from being shattered into pieces I can't put back together.
But there's another ache. One I've been ignoring for two weeks because acknowledging it feels like betrayal.
I shift positions again, and my hand drifts to my stomach. The slight curve that's starting to show. Our baby. His baby.
I close my eyes, trying to force myself to sleep. Instead, memories start coming.
London. The hotel room with morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Daniel's body, warm against mine, his hands tracing patterns on my skin like he was memorizing me.
"You make it quiet," he'd murmured. "Maybe you finally stopped fighting it," I'd replied.
My breath hitches at the memory. Heat pools low in my belly despite everything—despite the betrayal, despite the hurt.
This is wrong. I should hate him completely. But my body doesn't understand hate. It only remembers how he touched me. How he made me feel safe and wanted and real.
Pregnancy has made everything more intense. Every sensation amplified. Every nerve ending awake in ways I don't want them to be.
My hand slides lower, hesitant.
I shouldn't. This is pathetic—lying on my best friend's couch, pregnant and abandoned, wanting the man who called me a liability.
But the ache won't stop. And I'm so tired of hurting in every possible way. Maybe this one kind of hurt I can address.
Just to sleep. Just to quiet this relentless need.
My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my shorts. I keep my eyes closed, sinking deeper into memory.