Chapter 8
Bianca
“Do you think you’re getting the flu?” my friend Mia asks as she looks up from a binder of styles for an upcoming photoshoot.
“No,” I sigh, rubbing between my eyebrows. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve been dragging for weeks now.”
I nod. I’ve been more than dragging. I’ve been sleepwalking through my life.
“My brother-in-law had the flu last year. It was horrendous,” another stylist, Margaret, chimes in.
“It’s too early for the flu,” I comment. “It’s still August.”
Mia shrugs. “You should go to the doctor anyway.”
“I just need a caffeine hit,” I decide.
Margaret gives me a sympathetic look. “A latte?”
“That would be amazing,” Mia says. “Oat milk.”
Margaret laughs. “I’ll be back with a round for all of us. Try to keep your eyes open until then, B.”
“Yeah.” I force a chuckle. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
I resume my work, scrolling through UGC clips that have already been posted for next week’s drop and drafting ad copy.
“Hey.” Mia taps the edge of my desk.
I look up.
The concern in her expression unnerves me. Do I look that bad? Am I really that out of it?
“I called you three times,” she says.
“Sorry,” I mumble, wiping my palms on my thighs.
Mia bites the corner of her lip before continuing, “Did you see the DMs from that influencer?”
“The tennis player?” I squint, as if that will help jog my memory.
“Yep.” Mia looks almost relieved that I know what she’s talking about. Damn. Have I been that spaced out this week? “I’m going to follow up with her. Any input?”
I wrack my mind for insight. This is where I shine. I speak the language of the influencers, having built my own following in the same space. But...nothing useful comes to mind. “Nope,” I say easily. “I trust you. You know what you’re doing.”
Mia beams. “Okay. Thanks, B.”
“You got this,” I inject cheer into my tone and manage a smile.
Relief rolls through my limbs when I spot Margaret with the tray of coffees. I just need some caffeine. Then, I’ll clear my mind and get my shit done. I got this too.
Lies. I don’t have shit.
Because that night, when I’m walking home from drinks with my friend Casey, the scent of frying onions near the corner hot dog stand turns my stomach.
“Shit,” I mutter, clutching my abdomen. I hurry past and race into my apartment building, relieved when I make it inside with vomiting.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I’m not sure why. Maybe Mia was right. Maybe I am coming down with the flu. My phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime from my brother but I don’t have the energy to answer. I don’t have the energy for anything.
Instead, I change into a pair of oversized sweats, toss myself into my bed, and fall asleep.
“You’re spacing out again,” Mia hisses two days later.
We’re at a rooftop in Chinatown, shooting a campaign for our spring launch before the temperatures drop.
“What’d I miss?” I turn to look at her, horror washing over my face.
“Chris wants to know if you sent him the taglines and ad copy for this week’s reels,” she murmurs.
I snap my head and my gaze meets Chris’s serious expression.
Nodding, I move toward my boss.
He steps to the side, away from the earshot of models clad in sleek, black tracksuits and colorful sneakers.
“Hey, you okay, B? You’ve been a little out of it this week,” Chris comments.
Shame burns low in my gut. I don’t make mistakes like this. And when I do make mistakes, I own them.
Sucking in a breath, I admit, “I’ve been feeling off, like I’m coming down with something. I’m sorry, Chris.”
He shakes his head. “We all reach a level of burn out, Bianca. I know you’re usually the last to leave at night.”
“I’ll be fine.” I manage a smile. “And I’ll get those taglines and copy over to you by end of day.”
“If you need to take a day off—”
“I don’t,” I interject, horrified at the thought of being sent home. The backs of my eyes burn and I blink rapidly, wondering if I’m going to fucking cry in front of my mentor about…what? What the hell is wrong with me? “We’re all set to start.”
“Great.” He nods and turns back toward the models. Clapping his hands, he gathers their attention and runs through the flow of today’s photoshoot.
I hurry to the other side of the rooftop and glare at the skyscrapers, willing myself to get a handle on my errant emotions.
“B,” Margaret says, passing me an oat milk latte. “Everything is fine. Don’t stress it.”
Touched by her thoughtfulness, I dip my head in thanks. Then, I shake off my feelings and get to work.
Approaching a small cluster of models posing, I fix two hoods and wink. “Give a little attitude.”
One of the women smiles back. “You got it.”
I force myself to stay focused and present for the remainder of the photoshoot, but when it wraps for lunch, I’m relieved. Begging off lunch in Chinatown with my coworkers, I head back to the office in Soho so I can finish up some tasks I’ve fallen behind on.
URBN Move is headquartered at the iconic corner, where Prince Street kisses Green Street. The historical, cast-iron buildings house trendy boutiques and artistic spaces. My office building, a modern, glass-walled high-rise, rests above a concept store and a bustling café.
Deciding I need another shot of caffeine to keep me going, I duck into the café to order an iced matcha latte.
I’m digging through my tote for my phone when I overhear a coworker, Brandon, in line behind me. “Last night’s launch party was sick. Did you see who showed up?”
“Yes! Katie Q is going to be the next solo artist to make it big from Queens. I couldn’t believe she was there last night,” another coworker, I think Amanda, replies.
My hands freeze as dread drips down my spine. Holy shit. Last night was a new product launch party hosted by MondayMoods, a beauty company, that I was supposed to attend.
And I fucking forgot. Until this moment when I overhear Brandon and Amanda discussing it.
“Here you go, B,” the barista says, passing me my regular.
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the iced matcha and heading straight to the bathroom.
There, with my back pressed to the door, I stop fighting against the tears that seem to be pooling in a puddle just below the surface. They rise and when I close my eyes, slide down my cheeks.
I must be getting the flu. Or the coronavirus. Or something is terribly wrong.
Because how the hell did I forget the launch?
Sucking in a breath, I take a long sip of my iced beverage. The coldness calms me slightly, recentering my thoughts.
I take a few breaths, wash my hands in cool water, and touch up my makeup. Then, I sling my tote over my shoulder, emerge from the bathroom, and smile warmly at Amanda and Brandon.
“We missed you last night!” Brandon gushes.
“I wish I could have made it,” I admit. “How was it?”
Amanda gives me an overview of the event and I nod along patiently. “Next time,” I promise, before waving goodbye to them and heading back to the office.
I skip lunch completely, knowing I need to make up for the mishaps that have happened this week. It’s not until later, when I pull out my phone on the subway ride downtown, that I frown at the date.
It’s been five, almost six weeks, since I had my period. It ended the week I hooked up with Niko.
“Oh, no,” I breathe out as realization slams into me.
I couldn’t be…there’s no way…I’m not…fucking pregnant.
I took Plan B! I took the extra precaution.
You know emergency contraception isn’t guaranteed. Nothing is.
I close my eyes and there’s my new best friend—tears. They fall effortlessly, steaming down my cheeks in waves as I tap my head against the glass window behind me.
My subway ride continues and when I open my eyes, no one gives me a second look. That’s New York for you. A woman randomly crying on the subway is nothing to stare at.
Shaking my head, I get off at my stop and head straight to Duane Reade. I purchase multiple pregnancy tests. When I head to checkout, the cashier gives me a long, sympathetic look.
“You’ll be okay,” she offers.
And it’s the nicest thing she could have said in that moment. Tears well in my eyes again and she sighs heavily, as if knowing, just the way I do, that I’m fucking pregnant.
Memories from the past slam into me—the tears, the morning sickness, the fear—but I block them out. I can’t let them surge to the forefront of my mind. I can’t handle them.
I take the plastic bag from her and duck my head as I walk the three streets to my apartment. Once I’m locked inside, I pace back and forth in the tiny space.
My plants, all in desperate need of watering and planted in mismatched pots, seem to mock me.
How the hell can I be pregnant, and responsible for a child, when I can barely take care of plants?
When I already fucked this entire situation up the last time?
Wasn’t that a warning? A cautionary tale that I’m unfit to be a mother?
Panic rushes through me and I reach out to grip the underside of my kitchen countertop. My head spins as dizziness crashes over me.
I sink to my knees before laying on the floor and staring up at my ceiling with the water stain in the corner from a burst pipe last winter.
I can’t be pregnant.
I can’t bring a baby home to…this. I clutch at the woven rug I purchased at Chelsea Market in spring.
“I can’t be pregnant,” I repeat aloud, as if that will make it true.
In my tote bag, currently sitting by the door on the floor, my phone begins to ring. Sighing, I crawl over but when I note my brother’s name on the screen, I send the call to voicemail.
Tears spring to my eyes again and I swear loudly.
“This is fucking ridiculous.”
I make my way to my feet, clutch the plastic bag, and lock myself in the bathroom. Then I take a deep breath and pee on three different sticks.
“No matter what happens, you’ll be fine,” I tell my reflection in the mirror.
It’s unconvincing even to my own ears. “It’s different now.
You’re not a twenty-two-year-old college kid.
You’re twenty-eight and financially secure,” I add, trying to add more pep to my tone.
It falls flat. “Fuck, I don’t know how to be a mother. ”
The timer on my phone rings; it’s been three minutes.
I reach for the stick and cautiously read the results.
A huge, giant, bright blue plus sign greets me on the first test. A pink line shows up in the test window of the second test. And the third test clearly shows the word pregnant, in case there was any doubt.
“Fuck!” I swear again, plopping down on the closed toilet seat and dropping my head into my hands. “I’m pregnant.”
I’m pregnant.
And my baby’s daddy is Niko Karas.