Chapter Two-Andrea
I glance at the counter.
“Andrea! Come on!” Julia wails.
Still one minute left.
My stomach twists.
Why am I like this?
Why do I want this so badly?
A husband? No. Been there, almost done that, got the emotional scars.
A boyfriend? Eh. Maybe. If he’s funny, loyal, and obsessed with me.
But a baby? A family?
Yes. A hundred times, yes.
That’s the dream. Always has been.
And yeah, I know it’s not trendy or modern or feminist to admit that out loud these days. But I don’t care.
I want to be a mom.
I want sticky fingers and lullabies and crayon drawings on the fridge. I want chaos and love and sleepless nights that matter.
Is that so wrong?
The timer beeps.
I inhale. Exhale.
Pick up the stick.
My heart sinks.
One line.
Not pregnant.
My lips tremble. My eyes sting. I blink up at the ceiling like that’ll stop the tears from coming.
It doesn’t.
Goddamn it.
Why does this hurt so much?
It wasn’t even a plan. Just an idea. A wild one. A stupid one, maybe. But still, somewhere deep inside, I let myself hope.
Because Remy Falco?
He’s reckless and dangerous and too hot for his own good—but that night with him?
It felt like something. Like fate, or maybe just luck.
My body responded to him in a way it never has with anyone else. And I thought that just this once maybe I would get what I want.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
But here I am.
Back to zero.
Not pregnant. Not in love. Not even sure if he’d answer my text if I sent one.
And now I’m just fucking sad.
Because even when you try not to hope, you still fall apart when it doesn’t come true.
And what good are dreams when you know you can never achieve them?
“Andrea!”
“Oh my God, I’m getting out now!” I shout, a little harsher than I mean to. I’m scrambling, trying to shove the used test stick back in the box, wrap it in tissue, and make it disappear like this whole pathetic morning never happened.
The second I crack open the door, Julia’s there. In her stupid matching track suit and her perky ponytail and her stupid big brown eyes that match mine a little too well.
She steps back, giving me space, but it’s too late.
She sees it.
Not the test, thank God, but my face.
My blotchy, red-eyed, falling-apart face.
“Ann? Hey, is everything okay?”
My throat tightens.
I could tell her. I could collapse in her arms like I used to when I scraped my knee or got dumped in middle school.
She’d probably hold me and say all the right things. She’s always been better at this stuff.
Emotional triage. Nurturing.
All the things I pretend I don’t need.
But I can’t.
I’m too raw.
Too embarrassed.
Too fucking sad.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I lie, the words coming out wobbly and watery.
I wave her off, brushing past her before she can hug me or touch my arm or see too much. My chest aches as I shove my door shut behind me and twist the lock.
Then I slide to the floor.
And I cry.
Ugly, gasping sobs I try to muffle in the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
Because it’s not just about the test.
It’s about everything.
It’s about being thirty-two and single and invisible.
Living at home with my parents and my youngest sister, who’s only even here because the condo she is moving into with her man is being redone.
It’s about feeling like my whole life is just behind schedule.
Like everyone else got the memo, and I’m still scrambling to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.
I want to be strong. Independent. Empowered.
But sometimes?
Sometimes, I just want someone to choose me.
To look at me—loud, opinionated, messy me—and say, “Yeah. You. You're it for me.”
But no one ever does.
And that one night with Remy? I think—no, I know—it fucked things up more than it fixed anything.
It made me feel wanted. Desired. Not just a warm body or a quick distraction, but something more.
Even if I told myself it was just about making a baby.
Even if I said I didn’t care.
Now I’m stuck with nothing but aching hope and a negative result.
I curl up tighter, pressing my forehead to my knees.
And I’ll let myself have this one day to cry and feel sad.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow it is back to the drawing board.
If I want a baby, then it looks like I’m going to need a plan. And I can do that. I’m great at planning.
Hell. It’s part of my job, working in the marketing department for Volkov Industries. And I’m good at it—everything else in life? Friendships outside the family? Men? Sex?
Not so much.
But I was good that night with Remy, a soft voice whispers in my ear.
And I bite my lip, refusing to think about it.
Whatever happened between us after Lee-Lee’s wedding was just a fluke. Too much sun and the right amount of alcohol.
I can’t risk going to him for sex. Not when I know I could easily fall for that man.
Shit.
This wasn’t supposed to hurt this much.
But it does.
God, it does.