Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Hailey
If You Get a Major Penalty and Panic Mode Engages
The first thought that crosses my mind when I see the test is: Well, that’s unexpected.
The second thought is: This has to be a joke. A cosmic-level prank. Any second now, a hidden camera crew will pop out from behind the shower curtain, and a grinning host will step out of my closet to say, Surprise. You’ve been punked. And, yes, I’m aware that show has been dead for years, but still . . . everything comes back, right?
Please tell me this is it. A very bad joke. I squint at the stick in my hand. It still says pregnant.
I shake it.
Still pregnant.
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—loud, breathy, completely devoid of actual amusement. I slap a hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t stop the sound from spilling through my fingers. This isn’t a ha ha laugh, it’s more like an oh, oh—I’m so fucked— kind of laugh.
Because really, this can’t be real.
Missing my period three days ago seemed off, but now this thing telling me I’m pregnant . . . well, fuck, that’s not cool.
“It’s wrong, Hailey,” I tell myself.
I mean . . . this is Greece. Things outside your main home are usually not real, right? Like when you go to Vegas, and everything stays there. Or maybe the first test is wrong. Maybe Greek pregnancy tests are the opposite, positive means negative because they’re across the Atlantic. Or maybe the universe is just messing with me.
So, naturally, I take another test.
Then another.
Then, one more for good measure.
The tiny hotel bathroom seems to shrink around me. The air closes in, pressing against my lungs, making it impossible to drag in a full breath. It’s suffocating—thick with something I can’t escape. Sunlight spills through the window, casting golden stripes across the marble sink, like the universe is trying to frame this as a breathtaking, cinematic moment.
It’s not.
I am Hailey Jean Castilla. Documentary filmmaker. World traveler. A professional at diving headfirst into other people’s problems while executing a flawless, high-speed escape from my own. And if there’s one thing I have never been good at? It’s dealing with anything that demands I stay in one place.
When I said I wanted something new, something different, something that would shake up my life? Yeah. This is not what I meant. But apparently, the universe heard my request, had a good laugh, and decided to hand me a prize I never entered for.
I take a breath.
Then another.
Then I laugh again, teetering dangerously close to full-blown hysteria. Nope. Not close. Firmly there. I’m losing my shit.
Of course I am. This is the plot twist I did not see coming. It wasn’t in the script of my life. The one I try to write with a few rules, like have fun, never settle, stay away from your family as much as possible.
It’s worked so far . . . until now.
This, my life, isn’t what I do. Nope. I try to pay no attention to it because it could get boring. I always document history—the past. Stuff that’s already happened, already wrapped up in a neat little bow of tragedy or triumph. Or, if I’m covering a current crisis, my job is to observe, analyze, and highlight solutions—how people can help, how I can help, while keeping a professional distance.
I do not become the disaster.
And yet, here we are.
I set the test down next to the others—four little sticks of doom, lined up like they’re part of some coordinated attack on my sanity. I stare at them, waiting for one—just one—to blink at me and say, Just kidding.
They don’t.
“How?” I groan, dragging both hands down my face like I’m trying to erase the last five minutes from existence. Then, for good measure, I cover my entire face with my palms and mumble through my fingers, “How?”
I peek through my fingers, shake my head, then dramatically flop backward. “No, seriously. How? Am I cursed? The evil eye documentary has something to do with this? Is there some cosmic being using my life as their personal reality show?” I let out a long, suffering sigh. “If so, I’d really appreciate a script change.”
Listen, this shouldn’t happen to me. I’ve been careful. Always. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of dodging anything that might tie me down—roots, responsibilities, attachments. I had a plan—a really good plan.
Until I’m thirty-five, I won’t even think about children, being tied down to a man, or a white picket fence in that plan. Nope, I don’t need any of that right now.
So . . . what now?
I grab my phone, totally calm, completely composed, definitely not on the verge of a full-blown spiral. My hands? Not shaking. Not even a little.
The first name in my favorites is Leif. My thumb hovers over it. I almost tap it.
Almost.
And then I don’t, because what the hell am I supposed to say?
Hey, Leify, how’s life? All good? Guess what? I walked away with a freaking souvenir.
From Greece, With Love.
Yeah. No. Not doing that. Also I’ve never called him Leify, why would I start now?
Aspen? Also a hard pass. She’s already off scouting another location in Belize, and the last time we spoke, she cheerfully informed me that this time, I wouldn’t get invited. Her words. Apparently, my too-serious, doom-and-gloom approach doesn’t exactly vibe with this come-visit-this-paradise documentary. Plus, she doesn’t have the budget to include one more person on it.
Hence, I’m still in Greece, trying to justify my extended stay as research—which is mostly me staring at the Mediterranean and hoping inspiration strikes.
So, back to the real crisis at hand: Nomadic documentary filmmaker finds herself unexpectedly expecting. A plot twist for the ages. And now what? Do I pitch a documentary about my own life derailing in real-time?
I clear my throat and slip into my best narrator voice—the kind they use for serious, award-winning documentaries. “Here, we witness the unsuspecting filmmaker in her natural habitat, staring into the abyss of responsibility. Notice the vacant expression, the slow blink—classic indicators of existential dread.”
I glance at the four tests lined up like a jury and sigh. “Despite overwhelming evidence, the subject remains skeptical, holding out hope for a clerical error.”
Since this is officially a shit-show and there’s nothing I can do on this side of the world, I do what any logical, well-adjusted, totally fine person would do.
I book a flight back to New York.
The moment I hit confirm, a very small, very panicked part of me wants to unconfirm immediately. Instead, I shove my phone onto my hoodie, rip open my suitcase, and start throwing things inside like I have any clue what I’m doing. It’s time to purge because I can’t take everything with me, and also I don’t have time to ship stuff like I usually do during my trips.
Underwear? Obviously.
Shoes? Probably a good idea.
Laptop? I should work. Work is good.
Pregnancy tests? No, that’s weird.
Greece souvenir mug? I hold it up, stare at the blue-and-white design, and drop it back in my bag. Fitting.
By the time I zip up my suitcase, I have two competing thoughts:
I am absolutely not ready to deal with this. I am so, so much less ready to deal with it alone. Hence, I’m leaving for New York, the place that’s the closest to a home. Do I need to get one of those leases? Probably. Having a place to live might be required, right?
And if you’re in New York, do you know what that means, Hailey? “Ugh, my family,” I groan, feeling the pain all the way down to my soul. My conservative father is going to lose his shit and ask me to marry a complete stranger. I know he will. He’s so traditionalist, and I am . . . well not at all.
I look at the tests before shoving them in the trash. “Someone should have mercy on me.” None of those things do, so I just throw them in the trash, assholes.
* * *
The airport in Santorini is too bright, too loud, too full of happy people who aren’t freaking out about their life choices—or lack of them. I sit at my gate, pretending like I don’t want to crawl into a suitcase and disappear.
A text from Leif pops up on my screen: When are you coming home? I know you already finished the documentary. Stop avoiding us. I don’t have much time left before training camp. Three months in case you’re wondering.
I stare at the phone, okay, it’s more like a glare. What do I answer, like seriously? I’m not ready to tell anyone. I probably have to head to the nearest doctor and have him prove those stupid tests wrong. Please, let them be wrong .
A second texts arrives, Did you survive Greece, Hail?
I exhale, pressing my phone against my forehead for a beat before typing back: Define “survive.”
And immediately something else pops in: Oh, no. What happened?
I scoff and my fingers fly through the screen, Nothing. Why do you assume something happened?
Leif: Because it’s you.
Hailey: Rude.
Leif: Accurate.
My lips twitch, even as a lump presses against my ribs. Because I want to tell him. I want to say the words and hear him say “okay” in that simple, Leif way—like this is just another thing that can be figured out.
He usually doesn’t freak out when something weird happens to me. He never judges me and he’s always there for me, right? He drops everything, just like I do. I rearrange my life to make sure I’m there for him so he doesn’t deal with shit alone. Sure, he has his family who supports him all the time. Though sometimes he doesn’t want to reach out to them. He believes he’s the family’s support and he has to be there for them, not nagging them about his own issues.
And maybe that’s exactly why I can’t tell him.
Because Leif already does too much for me and everyone in his life. He already puts me first, whether he realizes it or not. I can’t let this be another thing he takes on.
Instead, I type back: All I have with me is bad date stories. But I’m coming back to New York early.
Leif: Oh?
Hailey: Yep. I’m working on a few pitches and it makes more sense to do it from there—not that I have a place to stay yet. I’ll rent something. In the meantime, I might stay at my sister’s.
Leif: You’re staying with me, Hailey. I have a guest room with your name on it.
Hailey: No, you don’t. You’re just making shit up and will have me sleeping on the couch of your hotel room.
Leif: Oh, I left the hotel last Monday.
Hailey: What? How?
Leif: Jacob found me a great place. This time far away from Killion. I can’t believe he was going to make me live next door to my brother. What the fuck is wrong with my agent? I swear if he wasn’t that good, I would fire him.
Hailey: And you furnished it already?
Leif: I have stuff, and did I mention there’s a pool and a hot tub?
Hailey: In the apartment building? Fancy. I should probably stay around the city and not lease something close to my family.
Leif: Wait, you’re leasing? What’s going on? Everything okay, Hail?
Hailey: Of course, but I can’t be couch surfing for the next few months while I figure out what my next project is.
Leif: Fine, be that way. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk about your issues. Just know that you can stay with me as long as you want. The pool and hot tub are actually in the penthouse.
Hailey: Oh, well, then I’ll be there with all my stuff and won’t ever move out, like ever.
Leif: That works for me. Send me your flight information so I can pick you up.
Hailey: You don’t have to. Just send me your address.
Leif: Hail, send me that information. I’m heading to the gym with my brothers. I’ll see you soon.