Page 13 of Afterglow

I’m also single and don’t even have a phone number for the man I’ve spent six weeks trying to forget.

A man I should’ve been glad never to see again. A man I should’ve never slept with. A man who saw me that night in a way that no one around me had for quite some time. A man whose face has drifted through my consciousness way too often since I left Monarch Ranch without so much as a goodbye.

Fuck me.

I tip my head back on a sigh, sending my inner ear into a tailspin and landing me with a thud in the empty bathtub.

“Ow,” I whine, turning onto my side and hoping the dizzy spell will lift. If it doesn’t, the nausea is sure to be close at hand, and I’ll be scrambling out of this bathtub faster than my tired body wants to move.

I’ve spent the past five days alternating between the bed and the cold floor beside the toilet. I’ve never been so sick. That was the first red flag. The second was that I couldn’t remember when my last period was. In and of itself, that isn’t particularly alarming—I’ve never been regular—but combined with the sickness, dizziness, and fatigue… It was enough to have me reaching for those tests when I was still sick this morning.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, my fingers finding their way to splay against my flat stomach. There’s an energy beneath my palm that didn’t exist a few hours ago; a connection to something—someone—that leaves me forever changed even now.

With a heavy exhale, I melt into my new reality.

Tomorrow I’ll figure out what happens next—how to tell Bryce, how to move forward.

But today I’m going to bask in the truth that this is real, that this is happening, that I’m going to be a mom.

Or I will, as soon as I’m done throwing up… again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Leanne

Iroll over in bed with a groan, pulling my pillow tight against my front. Very little has changed in the past twenty-four hours.

I’m still pregnant, which means I’m elated… and terrified… and so fucking sick I can barely see straight. And I still haven’t attempted to contact Bryce—though I did track down his number on one of the contracts from the wedding. Somehow, sending an email, given our history, didn’t feel right.

I’ve barely gotten out of bed except to take a shower—the one thing that makes me feel almost human, at least until my stomach rolls and I’m sent running for the toilet. I’m subsisting on water and a prayer at this juncture.

It’s not exactly the beautiful, glowing pregnancy experience I always envisioned. Of course, I never envisioned I’d be doing it alone. I thought I’d have a partner. Someone to hold my hair and go to the store for supplies. I imagined my family rallied around me, the support of the people I love getting me through the worst parts.

Instead, my hair is greasy, and my boss Vivian is completely beside herself with worry that I must be dying because I’ve never called out of work for an entire week. The family group chat is blowing up my phone with its usual chatter, but I haven’t bothered to respond, too tired to pretend I’m not hugging my toilet most of the day.

Also, whoever called this shit “morning sickness” can go straight to hell. It may get a little better in the afternoons and evenings, but I’m still essentially non-functioning at those times too.

My phone vibrates on the pillow beside my head, and I move nothing but my hand to swipe it open.

Jenna

Leanne, are you alive?

The last message I sent was on Monday asking if anyone else had gotten sick after family dinner Sunday night—no one had. Joke’s on me, it wasn’t food poisoning at all. It’s now Saturday, and I’m surprised they’re only now realizing I’ve gone dark.

Mom

Are you still sick?

With Mom chiming in, I’m going to have to reply. Otherwise, her worry will take over and she’ll appear at my door, prepared to clean my house from top to bottom and fill my fridge with chicken noodle soup. Part of me wants that to happen, but I’m not ready to face my family yet. I’m not ready to open the can of worms my pregnancy is sure to bring.

For one, they have no idea Bryce and I slept together the night of the rehearsal dinner. For another, they don’t know I’d been trying to get pregnant and subsequently believed I couldn’t—Craig and I never shared that part of our relationship with them, which only made it easier to lie about why we ended things.

Mom

Leanne, if we don’t hear from you by lunchtime, I’m coming over.

Called it. I roll onto my back, lifting my phone above me to type.