Photographingmywife—fuck the divorce, it wasn’t final yet—in Greece, at a beautiful restaurant by the sea.
That should be me. That should befucking me.
I stared at the photo until it went blurry, then I fell asleep, dreaming of watching Lila and her new man getting married in Greece.
It was fucking hell.
25
LILA
Ihadn’t been feeling right for days, but I’d assumed it was a combination of the local water iced in my drinks and stress. Graham had booked me an appointment with a local doctor, and now I was sitting in a pristine white office while a handsome Greek man analysed my pee.
Being a woman wassolovely.
He frowned and glanced at me, and instantly, dread crept down my spine.
“What is it?” I whispered, wondering what he could see in the pee that would make him frown.
He sent me a reassuring smile, then threw away the dipstick he had been scrutinising. He sat back in front of me and clasped his hands together.
“You’re pregnant.”
Blood rushed in my ears, and I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh and say he was kidding.
But he didn’t. He just continued to smile at me.
“What? I’m forty-four!”
“It’s fine, your body still works.” He lifted his brows. “When was your last period?”
I stared at the floor, my head spinning. My last period? I’d assumed I was perimenopausal for Christ's sake, so I’d stopped keeping track.
“I honestly don’t know,” I admitted, my voice sounding far away. “Months?”
I groaned. Months. When was the last time I’d had sex? I couldn’t even remember—but then I did, and I grabbed my phone. It was sad to think I could remember the one and only time I’d had sex with my husband in the past few months, and it had happened to be on my mom’s birthday.
I counted the dates, nerves fluttering in my stomach. I couldn’t be pregnant! Victor and I were gettingdivorcedfor fuck’s sake!
8 weeks ago.
So, I’d missed at least two periods.
Good god.
I closed my eyes and told the doctor I thought I’d missed two periods, and he asked when I was flying home, and advised me to get a scan at around 12 weeks.
Pregnant.
With my cheating husband’s baby.
I left the office with legs like jelly and sank onto the sun-drenched bench outside the medical centre. Tourists milled around looking at souvenirs to take home, oblivious to my conundrum.
Graham had called while I was with the doctor. What could I say? Thanks for helping me out but I’m carrying another man’s child?
I called my mom, because she was the only person who would know what to say. Tears stung my eyes when she answered.
“Hey! How’s Greece?”
