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She gapes. "Jesus, I need a drink." She takes a sip of the wine from her glass, then glances at mine. "No wonder you aren’t drinking now. In fact," —she knits her eyebrows—"you weren’t drinking at your reception, either."
"I wish I’d been able to. When he left halfway through that lunch, I wanted to sink through the floor and hide myself."
"He’s really making your life interesting, huh?" she murmurs.
I laugh. "Oh, my god, you’ve become so Brit in your reactions."
"Right?" She puffs up her chest. "I’ve been practicing how to be understated. I guess it’s paying off."
"You have a Brooklyn accent," I remind her.
"Doesn’t matter what I do; can’t get rid of that." She takes another sip of her wine. "So, you and he have an arrangement that includes sex, and a possible child on the way."
My stomach lurches. OMG, when she puts it that way. I place the glass on the coffee table. "Don’t forget the other wife."
"I thought you were joking when you mentioned that earlier," she murmurs.
"Sadly, not." My stomach makes grumbling noises, and I press my palm against it. "Turns out, the wife of one of his teammates who was killed while captive had a psychotic episode when she heard the news and now, thinks Knight is her husband."
"And let me guess. Out of a sense of responsibility, he’s been letting her continue the assumption?"
"You guessed it." Bile boils up my throat. "Uh, I think I’m going to be sick." My guts churn. I jump up, head to the bathroom, and am violently sick. I empty my stomach into the commode and manage to flush before I collapse against the wall.
"Here, honey, this should help." Mira places a wet washcloth against my forehead.
I sigh. "That feels good, thank you." I rest my eyes, until my stomach seems to settle down. And when I open them, it’s to find her looking at me with concern.
"What?" I take the glass of water she offers me and sip from it. "What is it, Mira?"
"Um, you puked, so you might be, you know—"
"I might be what?" I take another sip of water when realization hits. I spit out the water. "Ohmigod, ohmigod, you don’t think?" My hand trembles, and the glass slips from my fingers, but she catches it.
"I can’t be pregnant."
"Well, you did say you had sex without protection."
"But that was a week ago. I can’t be pregnant so soon, can I?"
The concern on her face deepens.
"Shit, where’s my phone? I need to check this on the internet."
* * *
"So, I could be pregnant. Damn, why can’t anyone agree about how soon after unprotected sex I could get pregnant?" I scowl down at my phone.
We’re back in the living room, where the two of us have been searching the Internet for some facts on my possible condition, and sadly, I’m none the wiser. I could be pregnant, or not. "Either way, it’s too early for symptoms to be present," I conclude.
She tosses her phone aside, reaches for her glass of wine, and drains it. I reach for my own glass of wine, but she swipes it from the table. "I’m getting you some water."
I deflate further. "At least, some juice. Or ice cream?"
Before she returns, the intercom buzzes. I walk over and answer it.
"It’s Giorgina, can I come up?"
Huh, the last person I’d have thought to see here. I buzz her in, then hold the door open.
