Page 50

“We can eat in mine,” Oakley offers. “Just look at the menus in your rooms, and let me know what you want to eat so I can call the chef.” Joys of being the daughter of the guy who owns this joint. Oakley can just call the chef.

“I’m going to shower, I’ll text you when I’m done.” I hobble over to my cottage, sure my feet have blisters on them. No one ever told me I was supposed to wear-in my hiking boots before actually hiking in them. Never again. I strip my clothes en-route to my bathroom and grab my toiletries. I take my time in the shower and allow the hot water to loosen my sore muscles. I wash my body, being extra careful with my boobs because they’ve been extra sensitive lately, and then wash and condition my hair. I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror, looking for my night moisturizer, when I find the box of tampons I packed. I stare at it, and stare at it some more. Uh. “Fuck,” I whisper. I run into my room and shoot off a group text to Oakley and Holland.

It’s our code for ‘emergency.’

Minutes later, there’s a knock at my door, and Oakley bursts in. They find me in the bathroom, holding my box of tampons. “I’m late,” I blurt.

They stare at me for a beat, and then “What do you mean?” It’s scary when they speak at the same time, but it happens.

“I’m late!”

Oakley’s eyes widen. “How late?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, panicked. “I’m late, damnit!” I don’t use birth control, it makes me gain too much weight, and the added hormones make me feel queasy a few days leading up to my period.

“Are you not using an app to track your cycles?” Holland asks.

“No!” I throw my hands up, and the box of tampons go flying. “I just know I should have gotten my period…” I try to do the mental maths. “Ten days ago.”

Oakley and Holland exchange a look, and Oakley mutters, “Shit.”

“I know!”

“Okay,” she says. “Get dressed. I’m going to call the concierge. There isn’t a pharmacy here, but I know they keep some things in the back.” We all scramble and meet outside my cottage when we’re somewhat dressed. I’m in leggings and a shirt, and Holland and Oakley are pretty much dressed the same. We speed walk to the lobby, and Oakley asks the concierge if they have a pregnancy test. It kind of hits me then, but also doesn’t.

The concierge hands it to her, and that’s when I hear, “Channing?”

Oakley spins, hiding the test behind her back just as Kalon approaches us.

“Kalon? What are you doing here?” Oakley smiles, Holland looks confused — she’s never met Kalon — and I’m trying not to throw up. What are the fucking chances? And right now? The Universe is truly fucking with me.

“I’m here with Tala for the weekend,” he replies, looking between me and Oakley. “I came for the old car show.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Oakley says. “My dad loves planning that, I’m sure you’ll love it. We have to go now, bye.”

“Wait,” Holland says. “If you’re a friend of Oakley and Channing, you should totally join us for Channing’s birthday dinner tomorrow night.” She has no fucking idea what she’s just done.

Kalon frowns and hesitates before replying, “I appreciate the invite, but I have plans with my daughter.” Thank God. I can’t imagine anything more awkward than having dinner with Kalon while thinking, ‘I’m pregnant, and it’s yours, and oh my GodohmyGodohmyGod!’

Oakley’s smile is strained when she says, “That’s too bad, but we really have to go now. Bye for real!” She grabs my arm and drags me out the lobby. I look back, and Kalon’s scratching his head, his expression one of confusion. Join the club, buddy. Back at my cottage, Oakley shoves me in the bathroom with the pregnancy test, and says, “Pee. Now.”

Jesus. Have you ever tried peeing on command? It’s just not possible. Not to mention the rate at which my mind is trying to process what’s going on. Sore boobs. Late period. Kalon. Fucking Kalon. I just know in my gut that if I’m pregnant, he’s the baby daddy. I manage to pee on the stick, and not my hand — because I’m shaking so hard — and after two minutes, I take the opportunity to find out whether I’m pregnant or not on my own before I let Oakley and Holland into the bathroom. It’s a digital test, and the screen reads, pregnant: 8 weeks.

“Hooo boy,” I breathe, my hand on my forehead. My eyes start to burn, and as soon as Oakley and Holland burst into the bathroom — they can’t be patient for shit — I burst into tears. “I-I’m p-pregnant.”

Oakley grabs the test and looks at it. Holland does too. When Oakley looks at me, we simultaneously say, “Kalon.”

I take a breath. “But how? He had a vasectomy!”

Oakley pulls her phone out, and Holland says, “Can someone explain to me what’s going on?”

“Give me a minute!” Oakley yells unnecessarily. She taps, taps, taps on her phone. “Okay, according to this article, one in every one thousand vasectomies can fail. Something about a tube growing back.”

“So his plumbing is faulty?” I screech.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Oakley asks.

“Yes. Eight weeks ago I spent the night at his house, and he didn’t have any condoms.”

“Wait, is this the guy we just bumped into in the lobby?” Holland asks. “And who I invited to join us for your birthday dinner?”

“That’s him,” I sigh. I drop my head in my hands. “What am I going to do?” Keep it, obviously, but what the hell do I know about being a single parent? I was raised by two parents on a fucking farm, and even then they weren’t the best examples. I know zilch about parenting, never mind good parenting.

“How sure are you he’s the guy?” Oakley asks, her gaze flitting between me and her phone.

“I wasn’t with anyone else eight weeks ago, Oakley. And how accurate is that article about vasectomies anyway?”

“It’s written by a urologist who works at Mount Sinai, and it’s been published in a few recognized medical publications.”

“Well, shit.”

“We’re having a baby?” Holland looks excited about the prospect, while I feel the need to cry, and scream, and throw up. It’s been a running theme in my life for the last week.

“Holland, I love you, but this is a DEFCON level 1 situation,” Oakley says. “Until we can get Chan to an OB/GYN, we have to avoid Kalon at all costs, okay?”

I want to ask her how the fuck we’re supposed to do that when we’re staying in the same resort — which is not massive enough for me to avoid him all the damn time — but, I can only deal with one crisis at a time.

And an unplanned pregnancy is most definitely a crisis.