Screwing up my courage, I step back over to the bathtub, reach for the stick, and grip it in my fingers. This is it.
Am I about to become a single mother? Will Dante come for the child? Just how badly would he want his baby, his heir? I don’t doubt he’d fight me in court for custody. A chill goes through me. He’s played me so much. How can I trust that he’ll do what’s right for this child?
On the other hand, if it’s negative, I’m free to move on. To pocket some cash from the crappy waitressing gig until I have enough saved to get my own place, find a better job that will help support Livvie until she’s graduated from college. The sky really will be the limit. Because the last thing I want is to be trapped again. I can’t handle any more lies or betrayal.
Either way, I know I’ll have my hands full regardless of what the results are. There is no life for Dante and me, but being a single mother isn’t ever what I had in mind for myself. I’d always hoped that if I did have kids, I’d have more to offer them than the kind of unpredictable, unstable life I’d grown up with. And yet here we are.
Letting out a slow breath, I open my eyes and look at the stick.
Two blue lines.
Holy. Shit.
I’m pregnant. With Dante’s child.
My face flames hot as nausea roils in my belly again, the bathroom suddenly seeming smaller and hotter somehow. Sweat beads my hairline and beneath my arms, a hot tingle going down my spine. I can’t believe it. I’m pregnant.
And I’m definitely going to throw up again.
2
Frankie
“Okay,so that’s two patty melts, one with fries, one with a salad, burger of the day, and an order of chicken strips with fries,” I say as I set down each plate at table ten. “All good?”
The family of four are all staring at me as if I just served them dog food.
“Where’s my mozzarella sticks?” the oldest kid whines, crossing his arms.
“I wanted curly fries!” his little sister says with a pout.
“This has cheese on it. I’m lactose intolerant.” The mother shoves her plate toward the end of the table, nearly tipping it onto the floor.
I’m close to reminding her that by default, a patty melt contains cheese, hence the whole “melt” part, which is clearly stated on the menu. But like a good little waitress, I keep my mouth shut. This is my third table today where I haven’t gotten a single order right, somehow. It seems like I can’t concentrate on anything thanks to those two blue lines.
I force a smile and pick up the plates with the wrong orders.
“So sorry about that, everyone. I’ll get this fixed up right away, find the missing mozzarella sticks, and how about some free milkshakes for the inconvenience?”
The dad tilts his head as if he’s trying to decide if that’s good enough compensation, and then he smiles. “Why not? Thank you.”
“No problem.” I hesitate a moment, expecting the supposedly “dairy sensitive” mother to remind me again about her lactose intolerance, but she says nothing. Right.
I take the patty melt and the chicken strips back into the kitchen and make an apologetic face at Ruben, the short order cook. He’s usually all smiles, but now he frowns. “What happened?”
“The mom at table four is lactose intolerant. Apparently, she’s also illiterate. The chicken strips need curly fries instead, and…” I trail off as I double-check the order written in my notepad—and confirm that the kid did not, in fact, ask for mozzarella sticks. “I was told an order of moz sticks is missing.” I look up. “Which isn’t actually true.”
He grins with a little chuckle and takes the plates. “I’ll fry up some cheese and make her a meltless patty, then. How ‘bout I box this one up and set it in the break room fridge for you?”
“You’re willing to risk Charles’s wrath? You know how pissed he gets when employees take food.” Even as I warn the cook, I’m secretly thanking Ruben profusely in my mind. I’m not sure how I can throw up fifteen times every morning, and then be ravenously hungry by 11 a.m.
Not that it matters. Whatever I eat inevitably comes back up anyway. It’s a never-ending cycle.
“Oh heck, what Charles doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Ruben says, already sliding the chicken strips with the corrected curly fries back toward me as a cheeseless beef patty sizzles on the griddle behind him.
I smile apologetically. “Also, um, I promised them free shakes if they didn’t have a fit. I can’t really afford any more complaints to the manager this week.”
Ruben just nods as he keeps an eye on his work. Hiding a hamburger from our manager is one thing, but fudging four milkshakes is another story. I’ll have to be sneaky and quick.
