Chapter 29
NORA
Seven Days Late
Iwake up tangled in my sheets, the faint taste of champagne still lingering at the back of my throat and mascara smudged in smoky half-moons under my eyes. The dress I wore to the gala is draped across the reading chair like a collapsed diva—wrinkled, glittery, exhausted.
My apartment is quiet. Too quiet.
Max left early this morning, mumbling something about grabbing coffee on the way to a meeting. Then the door clicked shut—and I didn’t even have the energy to miss him before I drifted back to sleep.
Now the sunlight is too bright. My head pounds—not quite a hangover, more like I’ve been run over by my own adrenaline. I rub at my eyes, sit up slowly.
And immediately regret it.
A wave of dizziness rolls through me. My stomach flips uneasily, and for a second I think I might actually be sick. I press a hand to my abdomen and breathe through it.
“Just nerves,” I whisper to the ceiling. “You pulled off a massive charity event. You’re allowed to feel… drained.”
Still, something feels off. Not in a sick way—well, not entirely—but in a wrong-frequency kind of way. Like my body’s playing a note just slightly out of tune.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen, still in Max’s oversized t-shirt from last night. I open the fridge, stare blankly at a half-eaten bagel and an alarming number of condiment jars, and shut it again.
Coffee. I need coffee.
But even the smell makes my stomach lurch. I wrinkle my nose and pull away. Not normal.
My chest feels… sore? I frown, press the heel of my hand gently against one breast, then the other. Yep. Tender. Unusual, but maybe my cycle’s being weird.
I glance at the calendar on the fridge. And then I blink.
I don’t panic at first, because maybe I remember the dates wrong?
I tell myself it’s nothing. A blip. Stress. The tail end of an exhausting whirlwind month. My body is just catching up, recalibrating after the chaos.
Except… I should probably open my cycle tracking app. Just to check. Just to reassure myself that everything is normal.
The screen loads.
And my heart lurches.
Seven days late.
I blink at the number. Then blink again.
That can’t be right. I always mark everything. I’ve been using this app for years, religiously. I scroll backward, looking at past entries—sure enough, the last cycle is logged. The timing is exact. The math is… not in my favor.
A strange ringing starts in my ears.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no—”
I know I was careful.
I always took the pill. I had a system. Alarms, even. I remember sitting on the tour bus, double-checking the foil pack. I never missed one.
A chill runs through me. My fingers tremble as I set the phone down on the coffee table.
It’s not definitive. Not yet. But the sinking weight in my gut is harder and heavier than any tea or yoga pose or rationalization can shake.
I’m late. I’m queasy. I’m sore. And every instinct I have is screaming the same impossible thing.
Oh God. What if I’m pregnant?
***
The city hums around me like it always does—horns and footsteps and distant subway clatter—but I feel like I’m moving through it on mute. Like everything’s underwater. Or like I’m dreaming and the world forgot to follow the laws of gravity.
At least I have the day off today—thank God for that.
The corner bodega is just two blocks away. I tell myself it’s not a big deal. People do this every day. It’s just a test.
Still, my palms are damp by the time I reach for the cool metal handle and slip inside.
Inside it smells like dusty coffee grounds, fried empanadas, and that faint tinge of disinfectant that clings to every New York convenience store. I nod politely at the guy behind the counter and make a beeline for the pharmacy aisle.
Act casual.
I toss a pack of gum into my basket. Then a travel-sized dry shampoo. A chocolate bar I don’t even want.
When I reach for the test, my hand hovers. There are too many options. One promises accuracy five days early. Another boasts "easy-to-read digital results" in bold pink letters. I grab two different brands and bury them under the dry shampoo.
As I turn the corner, something—or someone at the edge my vision—makes me pause.
A man stands at the end of the aisle. Suit jacket flawless, grey hair cut crisp. He turns the corner and is out of my sight in a second. His back was to me, but something in the tilt of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, felt… familiar.
No. Can’t be.
I blink hard, trying to shake it off. Clutching the basket tighter, I head toward the front.
The cashier scans my items without a word, but the second the test slides across the scanner, his eyes flick up. Just a flick, but it’s enough.
I feel my cheeks burn.
He doesn’t say anything, bless him, but the weight of that silent look makes me want to melt into the grimy tile floor.
I shove my card into the reader too fast, grab the bag the second it’s handed over, and mutter a thank you that comes out more like a cough.
Back on the sidewalk, I exhale sharply.
The little paper bag crinkles against my palm, light as air and heavy as a bomb.
I don’t run. But I walk fast. Eyes on the pavement. Mind spiraling.
Please don’t be. Please don’t be.
But the truth is, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for anymore.
Back home, I set the test on the edge of the bathroom sink like it’s made of glass.
My fingers are trembling, my breath shallow.
I flip the instructions over just to have something to do with my hands, but I’ve already read them three times.
Still—control the variables. Double-check the window. The lines. The wait time.
Three minutes.
Three. Whole. Minutes.
I set the timer on my phone, but the second I do, I can’t bear to watch the countdown. I abandon it on the bathroom counter and walk out into the living room, wrapping my arms around myself.
I should sit down.
I should pace.
I should call someone.
I do none of it. I just stare into the middle distance and try not to imagine a plus sign.
The timer goes off.
A single, traitorous beep that snaps the world into sharp focus.
I freeze.
And then—very slowly—I stand.
My legs are heavy. Not with dread, exactly. Just with… everything. The weight of the unknown. The impossible.
Back in the bathroom, the test sits exactly where I left it, looking utterly unbothered. I reach for it like I’m defusing a bomb.
My breath catches.
I look.
One heartbeat. Then another.
And then the world tilts.
Because there it is.
Two lines.
Clear as ink.
Positive.
I sit down on the edge of the tub, the test still clutched in my hand.
I blink at those two lines like they might change if I just stare hard enough. As if this is one of those surreal dreams that dissolves with daylight. But the tile beneath my feet is real and cold. The test is real. The little pink lines are very real.
I’m pregnant.
Pregnant.
The word echoes through me like a dropped pin in a cathedral. Too big. Too final.
What will Max say?
The question blooms immediately, followed by an avalanche of others I don’t feel equipped to answer. Will he be shocked? Scared? Excited?
How will I take care of a baby? Am I ready to be a mother?
I rest a hand on my stomach. It’s still flat. Still quiet. But now it feels like a secret I’m carrying under my skin. A secret that will change everything.
I strip off my clothes slowly. Methodically. My fingers feel numb, but my body moves like it remembers how to function on autopilot.
The water takes a moment to heat. I step into it before it does, letting the chill snap me back into my skin. Then the warmth comes—too hot at first, but I don’t flinch. I want it to burn away the panic, the disbelief, the ache behind my ribs.
I close my eyes and let it pour over me.
For minutes—maybe hours—I do nothing but breathe. Long inhales, longer exhales. I let the sound of the water fill my ears, wash over the noise in my head. It’s the only thing that drowns out the fear.
I think about Max. His voice, his laugh, the way he looks at me like he’s still trying to figure out how we happened. I think about that night in the stacks when it felt like we were the only two people left in the world.
When I finally shut off the water, my skin is flushed and wrinkled, and my limbs feel a little steadier.
I towel off, pad into the bedroom, and reach for my softest sweatshirt—the one that’s two sizes too big and smells faintly of vanilla from the last time I washed it with my favorite detergent. I pull it over my head like armor. Then leggings. Fuzzy socks. Clothes that don’t ask anything of me.
Enough with the fear and the questions and the wondering. No matter how scared I am, no matter how much my heart stutters at the thought of what comes next—
I have to tell Max.