Chapter 3
Emma
The nausea hits me halfway through measuring out bergamot oil, and I have to grip the edge of my worktable to steady myself.
Not again.
I've been telling myself for three days that it's still jet lag. That my body is still adjusting to the time change even though I've been back from Florence for over a month. That the exhaustion is just from working too hard, the queasiness from the cheap coffee I've been mainlining to stay awake.
It has nothing to do with Florence. With Grant. With that one perfect, impossible night that I've been trying—and failing—not to think about every waking moment since.
I breathe through my nose, willing my stomach to settle, and carefully cap the bergamot.
My apartment is small enough that my entire operation fits in the corner of my living room—a folding table covered in bottles and beakers, a laptop balanced precariously on a stack of fragrance journals, handwritten notes taped to the wall above.
It's chaotic and cramped and completely mine.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Poppy: Still alive over there?
Poppy: You've been ignoring my texts for 48 hours.
Poppy: I'm coming over. I have pad Thai and questions.
I stare at the messages, torn between relief and dread. Poppy Morrison has been my best friend since middle school, which means she can read me better than anyone. Which also means she's going to take one look at me and know something's wrong.
Me: Hey, girl! I'm fine. Just busy.
Poppy: Liar. I'm already on the subway. See you in 20.
I set the phone down and look around my apartment with the eyes of someone about to have company.
It's not terrible—I'm not a slob, exactly—but there are takeout containers on the kitchen counter from the past three nights, and my bed is unmade, and I'm pretty sure I've been wearing the same leggings for two days.
I'm shoving the takeout containers into the trash when another wave of nausea rolls through me, stronger this time. I make it to the bathroom just in time, my knees hitting the tile as I retch into the toilet.
There's nothing in my stomach. I haven't been able to eat much beyond crackers and ginger ale.
I'm washing my face when I hear Poppy ring the buzzer. I buzz her up and unlock the door, then sink onto my couch, suddenly incredibly exhausted.
She lets herself in, carrying two bags of Thai food and wearing an expression that's half concern, half I-told-you-so.
"You look like death," she announces, setting the bags on my coffee table.
"Hello to you too."
Poppy drops onto the couch beside me, her dark eyes scanning my face with the intensity of a medical professional. Which she's not—she's a singer with a band that plays dive bars in Brooklyn—but she's also the most observant person I know.
"When's the last time you ate something?" she asks.
"This morning. I had toast."
"Emma."
"What? Toast is food."
She pulls containers out of the bag, the smell of pad Thai and curry hitting me like a wall. My stomach lurches.
"I'm not really hungry," I say quickly.
Poppy's hands still as she takes a closer look at me.
"How long have you been sick?"
"I'm not sick. I'm just tired."
"Come on, girl. You look exhausted. You're not eating. You're ignoring my texts." She reaches over and presses the back of her hand to my forehead like my mother used to do when I was little. "You're clammy. What's going on?"
I should tell her. I should tell her everything—about Grant, about Florence, about the fact that I can't stop thinking about him even though I wrote that stupid note and walked away. About how I've been lying awake at night replaying every moment, every touch, every word he said.
But if I tell her about Grant, I'll have to admit that I'm terrified. That I haven't heard from him since I left. That I don't know if the silence means he got my message and agreed it was a mistake, or if he's angry, or if he's just moved on.
"It's jet lag," I say instead. "And stress. I'm fine."
Poppy is quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small pink and white box.
My heart stops.
"No," I say.
"Emma—"
"No. Absolutely not. That's insane."
She sets the pregnancy test on the coffee table between us with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb. "You've been exhausted since you've been back from Italy. You can't keep food down. You're emotional. When's your period due?"
The question lands like a punch. I try to remember, counting backward, but my brain feels like it's moving through fog. I've never been super regular, especially when I'm stressed, and the past few weeks have been nothing but stress.
"I don't know. I’ve been so stressed! I’m not sure I remember having it even last month! But that’s happened before when I get crazy stressed."
Poppy's expression softens. "Em. Just take the test."
"I can't be pregnant." The words come out too loud, too defensive. "I always use protection. It's impossible."
"Protection isn't a hundred percent effective."
"It's like ninety-nine percent. Those are pretty damn good odds."
"Which means one percent of the time, it fails." She pushes the box toward me. "Just take it. Then we'll know for sure, and you can go back to blaming jet lag."
I stare at the box like it might bite me.
The panic that's been lurking at the edges of my consciousness for days suddenly roars to life.
Because taking the test means admitting there's a possibility.
And if there's a possibility, then everything I've been building—Essence, my independence, my carefully constructed life—could come crashing down.
"I can't," I whisper.
Poppy takes my hand. Her fingers are warm and steady, anchoring me. "Yes, you can. Whatever it says, we'll deal with it. Together."
The word "together" nearly breaks me. Because that's the problem, isn't it?
If I'm pregnant, I won't be dealing with it alone.
I'll have to tell Grant. And eventually my mother and father.
And everyone will know that I slept with my dad's best friend, and I'll become exactly what I've been trying not to be my entire life—a scandal, a cautionary tale, a girl who made a mistake and paid for it.
But Poppy's looking at me in that way only your best friend can, and I find myself reaching for the box. My hands are trembling as I pick it up.
"Do you want me to come with you?" Poppy asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
The bathroom is tiny, and it feels even smaller with both of us crammed inside. I read the instructions twice even though they're straightforward, stalling for time.
"Em," Poppy says gently. "It's just peeing on a stick. You've got this."
I take a breath and do it.
The three minutes we have to wait feel like three hours. I set the test face-down on the counter, and we retreat to the living room, where I pace and Poppy sits on the couch, tracking me with her eyes.
"It's going to be negative," I say. "This is ridiculous. I'm not pregnant. I'm just run-down and stressed and—"
"Emma."
"—and I haven't been sleeping well, and the time change really messed me up, and I've been working too much—"
"Emma."
"—and it's impossible anyway because I was careful, I’m always careful, and—"
"Emma!" Poppy stands, catching my hands to stop my pacing. "Breathe."
I breathe. Or try to. My chest feels tight, like there's a band around my ribs.
"What if it's positive?" The question comes out small and scared.
Poppy's grip on my hands tightens. "Then we figure it out. One step at a time."
"I can't be a mother. I can barely take care of myself. I eat popcorn for dinner and work until two in the morning and live in a four-hundred-square-foot apartment that reeks of essential oils."
"You're spiraling."
"I'm being realistic." I pull my hands free, resuming my pacing. "And even if I could be a mother, which I can't, the father is—" I can't say it. Can't say Grant's name out loud, make it real. "It's complicated."
"The guy from the plane?"
I'd told her about Grant. Sort of. I'd said I met someone on the flight to Florence, that we'd had one night together, that it couldn't go anywhere. I hadn't mentioned his name because, of course, she knows him and I just wasn’t ready to go there.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "The guy from the plane."
Poppy checks her phone. "It's been three minutes."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Three minutes. The amount of time it takes to change your entire life.
I don't move.
"Do you want me to check?" Poppy asks.
I should say yes. Should let her look first, give myself a buffer. But some masochistic part of me needs to see it myself.
"No," I say. "I'll do it."
The walk to the bathroom feels endless. I'm aware of every step, every breath, the way my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Poppy follows a few steps behind, close enough to catch me if I fall.
I reach for the test on the counter and hesitate, my hand hovering over the plastic stick.
"It's going to be negative," I say again, like saying it enough times will make it true.
Then I flip it over.
Two pink lines.
Clear. Unmistakable. Positive.
The bathroom tilts. Or maybe I do. I grip the edge of the sink, staring at those two lines like if I look hard enough, they'll disappear.
They don't.
"Em?" Poppy's voice seems to come from very far away. "What does it say?"
I can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything but stare at the test in my hand and watch my carefully constructed world crumble into dust.
I'm pregnant.
With Grant Cross's baby.
My father's best friend's baby.
The panic hits all at once, a tidal wave that steals my breath. My vision tunnels. My knees buckle.
Poppy catches me before I hit the floor, her arm wrapping around my waist as she guides me back to the couch. She takes the test from my fingers and sets it on the coffee table, then kneels in front of me, her hands on my knees.
"Emma. Look at me."
I force my eyes to focus on her face.
"Breathe," she says firmly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on, breathe with me."
I try. The air feels like it's not quite reaching my lungs, but I try.
"That's it. Good. Keep breathing."
We sit there for what feels like forever, Poppy counting breaths until the panic recedes enough that I can think again. When I finally speak, my voice doesn't sound like my own.
"I'm pregnant."
"Yeah," Poppy says softly. "You are."
"I can't be pregnant. I have a business to build. I have investors to pitch. I have—" My voice cracks. "I have a plan. And this isn't part of it."
"I know."
"This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. This is—" The words catch in my throat. "I'm going to end up just like my mother."
Poppy's eyes widen. "What? No. Em, that's not—"
"Yes, it is." I'm on my feet again, pacing, the panic giving way to something sharper.
Anger, maybe, or desperation. "Don't you see?
I'm going to have a baby, and I won't be able to work the hours I need to work.
I won't be able to travel or pitch investors or do any of the things I need to do to make Essence successful.
And the father—" I stop, pressing my hands to my face. "God. The father."
"The guy from the plane," Poppy says carefully. "You said it was just one night."
"It was."
"So you’ll tell him—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. "No, I can't tell him. I can't."
"Emma, if you're pregnant, he has a right to know."
"He's—" I drop my hands, meeting Poppy's eyes.
"He's rich, Poppy. Like, insanely rich. The kind of rich where money solves every problem.
And the second I tell him, he's going to try to fix this.
He's going to want to take care of me, support me, probably try to buy me a bigger apartment or buy me a minivan—" My breath hitches.
"And I'll let him. Because it'll be so easy, and I'll be so tired, and before I know it, I'll have given up everything I've worked for. "
"You don't know that."
"I do." I sink back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "I watched my mother do it. And she did it because it was easier than fighting. Easier than trying to maintain her own identity in the face of someone who wanted to control everything."
Poppy sits beside me, her shoulder pressing against mine. "You're not your mother."
"How do you know?" The question comes out broken. "How do you know I won't make the same choices she did?"
"Because I know you. You're the most stubborn, determined person I've ever met.
You've been working yourself into the ground for a year to build Essence without anyone's help.
You went to Italy by yourself, you're learning to distill perfume from scratch, you're doing everything the hard way because the hard way is the only way you trust." She takes my hand.
"A baby isn’t going to change all that."
"It changes everything."
"Maybe," Poppy concedes. "But that doesn't mean it has to change you. Not in the ways you're afraid of."
I want to believe her. Want to believe that I can do this, that I can be pregnant and still be me.
But all I can see is my mother's face, the way she smiles when my father talks over her at dinner parties.
The way she's made herself smaller and smaller over the years, until sometimes I wonder if she’ll just completely disappear.
"I need to think," I say finally. "I need to figure out what to do."
Poppy squeezes my hand. "You don't have to figure it all out tonight."
But I do. Because every day I wait is another day closer to showing, another day closer to my father finding out, another day closer to everything spinning completely out of my control.
I look at the pregnancy test on the coffee table, those two pink lines mocking me.
I'm pregnant.
With my dad's best friend's baby.
And I have absolutely no idea what happens next.