“That’s fantastic news.”
It is fantastic news, and I should be feeling much happier than I am, but I can’t stop thinking about everything else. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this mess.
For the last week I’ve barely eaten, because my stomach feels like it’s full of lead. I’m jittery, anxious, and moody. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was pregnant . . .
Fuck.
Oh God, no, not now.
“Scar, what’s wrong?” Ryder asks, his gaze lowering.
I’m doubled over, unable to speak as I rack my brain, trying to think. Holy shit. My hands fly to my face, and I think I’m going to be sick.
As in, for real.
I race out of the room and down the hall, making it to the bathroom before I heave up a mixture of bile and what is left of my morning coffee.
Then hit hits me: I’m nearly ten days late. Suddenly, everything fits. The mood swings, the anxiety, the nausea . . . I’d put it all down to the stress I was under, with Jake being sick and Tony coming back into my life, but now I’m sure . . .
I’m pregnant.
How could this possibly get any worse?
Chapter Nineteen
Ryder
“That’s the fourth time this evening you’ve been sick,” I comment as she exits the bathroom.
She nods and collapses onto the bed. I’m worried about her and how much stress she’s under at the moment. She doesn’t eat, she barely sleeps, and she looks like death.
“I think I’m coming down with something. Between that and worrying about Jake . . . and Tony . . .” She rolls over and sighs. “I think all I need is a decent sleep.”
I walk over and kiss her forehead. “Can I get you anything?” I ask, concerned. Maybe she should be seeing a doctor. Her skin is freakishly pale, and her normally bright eyes are dull and tired.
She shakes her head. “If I don’t feel better tomorrow I’ll go,” she promises.
I slide the covers back and let her slip under them. Tucking her in, I kiss her again. “If you need me, I’ll just be out there.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I murmur.
No sooner have I poured myself a scotch than my phone rings. I reach into my pocket. It’s after midnight, which means it’s probably Josh—or the cops. I’m hoping for Josh, and I’m relieved when I see his number.
“Hey.”
“Good, you’re still awake.”
“I’m surprised you are,” I say. “Don’t you have a game tomorrow?” I ask, sitting down on the couch. I rub my neck, ignoring the call for sleep that my body is demanding of me.
He snorts. “Since when do you correlate game day with a good night’s sleep?”
“Fair point. What’s up, then?”
“So,” he begins, “I called my cousin. Your little friend is in a coma. He’s not in good shape. There is minimal brain activity, and recovery is not looking likely.”
“Shit,” I mutter.