9. Athena
ATHENA
The nausea is a violent, oily wave that crests in my throat, forcing me to lean my forehead against the cool, unforgiving brick of the building. I breathe through my nose, counting heartbeats, waiting for the world to stop spinning in nauseating circles.
Nate’s parting words ring in my ears, but the physical rebellion of my own body is louder.
I wait until the bile recedes before pushing off the wall.
I don’t look back at the café window. I don’t want to see if he’s watching me.
I walk three blocks in the opposite direction, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the pavement, weaving through the midday crowd until I’m certain the sea of scrubs and business suits has swallowed me whole.
There’s a pharmacy on the corner of 4th, its neon sign humming with clinical indifference. I duck inside, the air conditioning hitting my skin like a slap. My hands are trembling as I navigate the aisles, bypassing the rows of vitamins and cold medicine until I reach the family planning section.
The boxes are bright, colorful, and feel like live grenades. I grab a two-pack and bury it under a bottle of water and a pack of gum.
The walk back to my apartment is a blur of hyper-awareness. Every white SUV looks like Nate’s; every tall man with salt-and-pepper hair looks like Nathan. By the time I’m inside my door, stripping off my jacket and kicking aside my shoes, my lungs feel tight.
In the bathroom, the silence is deafening. I follow the instructions with the mechanical precision of a woman who spends her life following hospital protocols. Then, I set the plastic stick on the edge of the sink and walk away.
I stare at the peeling wallpaper in the hallway, counting the seconds.
When I finally walk back in and look down, the word PREGNANT is staring back at me in a stark, digital font that feels like a death sentence.
I’m on the pill. I’ve been on it for years, a ritual as mundane as brushing my teeth.
But three weeks ago—the same week Nate’s betrayal imploded my life—I’d been hit with a brutal stomach flu.
Two days of violent illness and the kind of high fever that leaves you delirious.
Between the vomiting and the sheer emotional exhaustion of catching Nate in our bed with a stranger, the efficacy of my birth control must have plummeted to zero.
And now, the math of my life has been irrevocably altered.
Panic is a cold, rising tide. I’m a Pediatric Child Life Specialist; I know exactly what this means. I know the milestones, the risks, and the sheer weight of a human life. I’m not even sure if I’m ready to be a mom.
I look at my reflection, my skin pale and my eyes wide with terror. I have dinner at seven.
I’ve spent years helping children face their biggest fears with a smile and a sticker, and yet I don’t know how to fix this. The woman staring back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like someone who should be making life-altering decisions before dinner.
My hair is still pulled into a loose hospital bun, my mascara smudged faintly under my eyes from the long shift, my face pale in the unforgiving bathroom light. The word on that plastic stick burns into my brain every time I blink.
I grip the edge of the sink and force myself to breathe slowly through my nose.
This changes everything.
Not just my life. Nathan’s too. A sharp pulse of fear cuts through the panic. Nate’s voice echoes again in my head, smug and threatening, promising he can make life difficult for anyone he wants.
I drag both hands down my face and stare at the test again like it might change its mind if I glare hard enough. It doesn’t. The word stays there, calm and digital and completely indifferent to my crisis.
Fine.
If I’m going to detonate my own life tonight, I might as well do it cleanly.
Nathan deserves to know.
The thought settles into something solid enough to move with. I grab the test, wrap it in tissue, and shove it deep into the bathroom trash before turning the shower on full blast.
The hot water pounds against my shoulders while I stand there longer than necessary, trying to quiet the storm inside my head. I wash my hair twice, scrub my skin harder than usual, and lean my forehead against the tile for a moment before forcing myself upright.
Dinner.
Tell him the truth.
Then deal with whatever happens next.
By the time I step out and dry my hair, my hands have stopped shaking.
I choose a simple black dress from the closet and pull it on without overthinking it. Light makeup. Small earrings. Shoes that won’t trip me if my knees decide to betray me halfway through the evening.
At six fifty-eight, the doorbell rings.
I stand still for a second, staring at the door like it might disappear if I wait long enough. Then I square my shoulders and open it.
Nathan Clarke fills the doorway.
He’s wearing dark slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, the collar open just enough to show the line of his throat. His hair is still slightly damp, like he showered not long ago, and the faint scent of something expensive and clean drifts into the hallway.
He looks like a walking argument against good decision making.
For a moment I just stare at him. Every ridiculous Greek statue I’ve ever seen suddenly makes sense.
Nathan’s mouth curves slowly when he notices my expression. “Good evening to you too.”
I blink and step aside quickly. “Sorry. Hi.”
His eyes move over me once, warm and approving in a way that makes my pulse stumble. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. He offers his arm without comment, the gesture old-fashioned and easy. I take it automatically, letting him guide me out to his car.
The drive to the restaurant is calm. Nathan talks lightly about a difficult surgery from earlier in the week and asks about my patients, and I’m grateful he never asks why I left my shift early.
I answer when appropriate, but most of my attention stays fixed on the passing city lights outside the window.
My hands rest folded in my lap. My head is full of the word pregnant. Nathan glances at me once while we stop at a light. “You’re quiet tonight.”
I force a small smile. “Long day.”
He studies me for a moment like he knows that answer isn’t the whole truth.
His hand shifts on the steering wheel and his gaze flicks back to the road with a level calm that makes me feel seen anyway.
The streetlight changes and we move forward, the car rolling smoothly while my thoughts pile up faster than my mouth can keep up.
I keep my hands folded in my lap and focus on breathing through my nose. My dress feels fine. My skin feels wrong. My head keeps replaying one word, and I’m trying not to let it crawl onto my face.
Nathan turns into the restaurant lot and parks with the same careful control he brings to everything else. He gets out first, walks around, and opens my door. I take his hand as I step down, and the contact lands warm and steady in a way that almost breaks me.
Inside, the host recognizes him. We’re led past a low bar and a row of tables, then into a quieter corner where the lighting is soft and the chairs are comfortable enough to encourage people to stay.
Nathan pulls my chair out and waits until I’m seated before sitting across from me. He sets his phone face down beside his glass and folds his napkin with neat, economical movements.
“You’re still quiet,” he says, voice low enough that the neighboring tables can’t steal it. He places his hand on my thigh and rubs it over the fabric of my dress, parting his beautiful mouth in a soft, warm smile. “Talk to me.”
I glance at the menu without reading it then set it down to meet his gaze. “I’m thinking.”
His mouth curves slightly. “That usually means trouble.”
I try to smile. It comes out thin.
The waiter arrives with water and a brief explanation of specials. Nathan orders without fuss. I order without caring what I picked. The moment the waiter leaves, silence settles again, and it feels heavier without the distraction.
Nathan watches me with that focused surgeon attention, the kind that notices small changes and refuses to let them pass as nothing.
“Talk to me,” he says.
My fingers slide around the base of my water glass. The cold steadies me for half a second, and then it doesn’t. “I saw Nate today.”
Nathan’s expression shifts. Not shock. Not surprise. Just a tightening behind his eyes, and his posture goes more still. “Did he bother you?”
“He tried.”
Nathan’s gaze holds mine. “Tell me what he said.”
I could. I should. The threats sit in my throat, sharp and ugly. I picture Nate with that smug certainty that he can ruin anyone he chooses.
I don’t give Nathan any of that yet. I take the coward’s route and reach for a safer question, even though it isn’t safe at all.
“What do you think about being a dad,” I ask, and my voice comes out too careful.
Nathan doesn’t answer right away.
His eyes stay on mine then drift to the table. He picks up his glass and takes a slow sip, then sets it down with controlled precision. His fingers rest beside it, relaxed, but his attention feels harder now.
“That’s an odd dinner topic,” he says.
“I’m asking,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “Not interviewing you for a magazine.”
Nathan lets out a short breath that isn’t a laugh. “Do you want the polite answer,” he asks, “or the real one?”
My chest tightens. “The real one.”
He studies me for another beat, then his voice drops and the warmth disappears from it. “I think kids get used as weapons.”
I knit my brows together. “Used how?”
His gaze turns flat, clinical, and it scares me more than anger would. “Women use children to keep a man in place. They use them to get money, attention, compliance, and they call it love when it’s really control.”
My fingers curl against the edge of my napkin. I keep my expression steady, but my eyes sting.
“That’s not fair,” I manage.
“It’s accurate,” he replies, and the certainty in his voice makes my stomach turn. “I’ve seen it happen. I’ve lived it. I’m not doing it again.”