Chapter 33 - Stella
Stella
The sun is finally out today, bright and unrelenting. We’ve had nothing but downpours for the last few days. The grass is still damp, the air still smells like wet earth—but the sunshine on my face feels like little kisses.
Growing up in Arizona, I never thought I’d get tired of seeing rain—it's the one thing Agave Hills is seriously lacking. But after three and a half years in Virginia, I can say with full confidence: the rain is a menace.
Ansel and Blythe already have a table waiting at The Bayside Diner. All-you-can-drink mimosas, a club sandwich to share, and my favorite berry salad—already set out like a chaotic little offering.
I wave at the hostess and walk straight through to the balcony seating. We’ve got the perfect view of boats pulling in and out of the harbor, the ocean breeze tangled with fresh salt and citrus.
We hug, settle, and drink. “Mmm… damn, this mimosa hits the spot,” Ansel mutters mid-sip, already looking half feral with citrus foam on her lip.
Blythe’s sipping a glass of water. I glance at her, brow raised. “You feeling okay, Sinshine? You’re usually two mimosas ahead of Ansel by now.”
She shrugs, stabs at her salad as if it had insulted her.
“I’m fine. It’s just…” she sighs. “Sinclair’s being a hardass.
” Another sip of water. “No alcohol. No hot tubs. Eat cleaner. Hydrate more. He’s been so uptight ever since we decided to start trying.
” She pauses. Smiles tightly. “It’s like he’s the one carrying the baby. ”
Ansel, ever the smartass, leans back with a dramatic groan.
“The one good thing about being knocked up? You don’t have to deal with your uterus trying to murder you every month.
” Ansel downs the last of her mimosa and asks for a refill.
“I swear to God, I am cramping so bad right now, I wish I could just have the damn thing ripped out of me. Just yeet it. Take the whole damn organ.”
Blythe laughs, and I nearly choke on my mimosa—bubbling citrus shooting up my nose. Elegant, as always.
Cramping. Period. Uterus.
Wait.
What day is it?
I fumble through my purse and yank out my mini planner, flipping through the pages like my life depends on it.
Ansel and Blythe just stare—like I’ve grown a second head and named it after a panic attack.
“Wait. No, no, no…” I trace the dates with my fingertip, the color draining from my face.
“Fuck… I am three weeks late.”
Blythe looks way too excited—like someone just handed her a baby shower invite and a free Target registry.
And me? I’m one breath away from sobbing into my overpriced berry salad.
“Oh my god, Stell, are you pregnant?” Blythe is elated.
“No, I can’t be. It has to just be the stress. The rush of the wedding, prepping for summer classes. Yeah, it’s just the stress.”
Ansel reaches over and grabs my hand, steadying the shake.
“Babe, it will be okay. Donovan loves you, and this is good, right? Building a family?” Ansel’s voice is low and calming.
I look her in the eye and whisper, “Ans, I never wanted kids.”
I pay for my part of the bill and walk home. My head is down while I am drawing in my thoughts.
I turn onto my street, and I can see the stoop of my apartment just up the street. I don’t head straight home; instead, I make a beeline for the corner store.
I am walking up and down the aisles, throwing junk food in my basket. I hesitantly walk towards the feminine aisle—tampons, pads, menstrual cups, and there, sitting on the end—my fate.
I am standing in front of the pregnancy tests, reading all the marketing gimmicks. Results two weeks early, digital results—no guessing whether the line is there or not. Why are there so many goddamn options?
Fuck it, I yank two different types off the shelf and throw them in the basket. I see an endcap of Congrats New Mom cards, and I stop.
My mind spirals back to middle school health class. The first time it was planted into my head that I am not fit to be a mother.
Ms. Smith hands every student an egg, drilling the instructions for the next week in our heads. The only thing anyone took out of it was Do.Not.Drop.The.Egg.
We had the egg for two days. I was walking into the classroom, and Molly Adams, number two of the three bees, stuck her foot out and tried to trip me. I started falling forward, and to save face and not get hurt, I threw my hands out in front of me.
I can still hear the splat and then the high-fructose sugary laugh of Elaine.
“Oh my god!” she screeches. “Stella dropped her egg.” She squats down to be closer to my level and plucks an eggshell off the floor. “You would be a horrible mother.”
I ran out of the class crying, the shame washing over me. From that point forward, I knew I didn’t want to be a mom—it's not the only reason, but it’s what started it.
Donovan walks through the door just after sunset, his hair damp from the rain, his motorcycle helmet under one arm. He’s smiling at first—until he sees me.
I’m still on the couch, knees pulled up, the plastic pharmacy bag sitting like a landmine on the coffee table.
His smile falters.
“Star?” he asks gently, crossing the room. “You okay?”
I nod. Then I shake my head.
His brows pull together. “Talk to me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and whisper, “I’m three weeks late.”
The silence is immediate. It lands like a thunderclap.
His whole body stills. Then—
“Wait,” he says slowly. “Late? Like… late late?”
I nod again.
His breath catches. He sets the helmet down and sinks to his knees, hands curling around my hips like he’s grounding himself—like touching me is the only way to hold all this emotion in. His eyes are wide, bright, and disbelieving. Hope and love and something almost wild blooming across his face.
His hands find mine, cradling them, warm and steady.
“Are you serious?” he breathes. “Stella—fuck. Are we… are you pregnant?”
I flinch. Just barely. But he feels it. His grip loosens for a second, and I look down.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “I haven’t taken the test yet. It’s probably just stress. The wedding. School. Work. That’s all it is.”
He tilts his head, eyes searching mine.
“But there’s a chance, right?”
His voice is wrecked with wonder. With hope.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
He leans forward, presses a kiss to my knuckles, a silent vow.
“If this is real…” he breathes, dropping his forehead to mine, “Stella, this would be everything. You—glowing, growing our baby. Watching you become a mother? That’d be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I flinch—barely—but it echoes.
Because he means well, he means everything with love.
But if that’s the best thing… what does that make me?
My heart splits in two.
Because all I can think is I never wanted this.
Donovan doesn’t notice the way I stiffen—not at first.
He’s still caught in the moment, in the soft glow of what this could be.
“I’d take care of you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the back of my hand. “Every craving. Every mood swing. Every mile you’d walk with our baby. I’d be there.”
I stare at the floor.
“You’d be so beautiful,” he adds. “You already are, but… that kind of beautiful? Stella, you’d wreck me.”
My throat tightens.
Because part of me wants to believe him, wants to lean into the warmth of his words, the light in his eyes.
But the other part—the louder one—is dragging me backward.
Back to classrooms and cracked eggshells.
To whispers that still live in my bones.
To a world that chews people up and spits them out, crueler than before.
What kind of mother would I be, raising a child in this?
What if I break them before the world ever gets the chance?
“I’m not—” I start, but stop.
How do you explain that you’re scared of becoming something you never wanted to be? That you’re scared of failing at it?
That you’ve spent years telling yourself you weren’t made for this?
Maybe you’re already not enough?
I shake my head and blink up at him.
“I haven’t even taken the test yet,” I say again, my voice quieter now. “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”
He leans back slightly, like the shift in my tone finally reaches him.
His expression softens, a shadow flickering through the hope.
“Okay,” he says gently. “We’ll find out together. No pressure. No rushing.”
But the pressure is already there.
Because he looks at me like this is a dream come true. Like, I could be the reason he gets everything he’s ever wanted.
And all I can think is—I might never want this. Not now. Not ever.
And that truth is heavier than any test result.