Chapter 9 Rhea
NINE
RHEA
It’s three days before departure
I haven’t felt like myself in weeks.
The fatigue won’t let up. My appetite’s off. I’m queasy every morning and on edge the rest of the day. I keep telling myself it’s stress. The move. The grant. The house sale falling through at the last minute.
But yesterday, Ron was eating a tuna fish sandwich in his office when I stepped in, and what followed wasn’t just nausea—it was full-on, relentless dry heaving.
Today, I beg to be squeezed in with Karen, my longtime nurse practitioner. She’s smart, steady, and no-nonsense. She cared for my mom through the hardest parts. If anyone will shoot straight with me, it’s her.
I explain everything—fatigue, sensitivity to smells, the emotional static buzzing under my skin. She listens without interrupting, her brow creased in thought.
“Have your periods still been quite irregular?”
“Yes.” I chuckle, “Which I can’t say I mind.”
“Are you experiencing any tenderness in your breasts?”
I pause. And then slowly raise my hand to my left breast.
Oh, God.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Actually… both.”
And just like that, panic claws its way up my throat.
That’s how it started for Mom.
Before it spread to her bones. Before the endless pills and the nausea, the headaches, and the quiet, violent way cancer stole her.
My breath catches, and before I can stop it, tears are sliding down my cheeks.
“Is it breast cancer?” I ask, barely able to get the words out.
Karen offers a soft smile and tilts her head. “No, Rhea. I don’t think that’s it.”
I hold my breath.
“I want to run some lab work to be sure,” she says, “but based on what you’ve shared—and your symptoms—I think everything is pointing in the same direction.”
“Rhea, when was your last period?”
I stare at her blankly. Swallow hard.
She meets my gaze.
“I think you’re pregnant.”
Everything goes still. For a full second, the world is silent. Then it starts to tilt. Spin.
“Pregnant?” I breathe. “That’s not—I mean, that’s impossible. I’m not even…”
And then it hits me.
Like a tidal wave crashing over everything I’ve built.
Spencer Devereaux.
The only man I’ve been with anytime in the not-too-distant past. The only man I’ve even kissed in years.
Oh. My. God.
My hands start to tremble. The shaking moves up my arms, through my spine. Karen is saying something about labs, timing, confirming the pregnancy—but I’m not hearing it.
She gently lays a hand on my knee.
“I can see this wasn’t what you expected coming in. But you have options. You can take time to process. Maybe come back—bring a friend, or the father, once we have the results.”
“I can’t come back,” I whisper. “I’m leaving for France.”
“Today’s Tuesday,” she says. “Let’s get you to the lab first thing tomorrow. I’ll fit you in again Thursday morning.”
I nod.
Pregnant.
Pregnant?
A baby?
This wasn’t the plan. This can’t be the plan.
I stop at the drugstore on the way home. I don’t need to. But I do anyway. I buy a test and go straight to the bathroom the moment I walk in the door.
And when the result appears, clear as day, I slide to the floor.
I wrap my arms around myself and cry.
I cry for my mother.
I cry for my father, wherever he is.
I cry for the dream I thought was finally within reach—the cobblestone streets and fresh starts, the cafés and borrowed time.
It’s unraveling. All of it.
When I finally pull myself together, I reach for my phone.
I don’t hesitate.
I scroll to Spencer’s number, double-check every digit, and type:
I need to talk. Could you call me at this number? It’s important.
I hit send.
No reply.
Not right away. Not in five minutes. Not by the time I change into sweats and make tea. And not as I sit on the couch staring at the wall for an hour straight.
But maybe I’ve got the number wrong. Maybe it’s never even reached him.
I open my laptop and go straight to the Paper & Pixel Foundation website. There has to be some contact info. Email? LinkedIn? Something.
But when the site loads, there he is.
Spencer Devereaux.
In a navy polo and khakis, standing on a grassy lawn with his arm around a stunning woman.
She’s tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling down at a boy—maybe four years old—who’s holding a caterpillar in his outstretched palm.
The caption reads:
Founder Spencer Devereaux enjoys time with family at the annual appreciation picnic.
Family.
He has a family.
A wife.
A child.
Of course he does.
I don’t need to keep searching. I don’t need his email. I have all the information I need.
I close the laptop and sit in the silence.
I won’t be the other woman.
I won’t interrupt an unknowing family with the news of some secret lover’s child.
That’s what my dad did to us.
Cheated, lied, and shattered everything we thought we knew about love and safety. Left us for a newer, shinier version of our life.
No.
That won’t be me.
And then I realize my new reality.
I’m not going to France.
I’m staying home.
And I’m going to raise this child.
On my own.