I listen as Celeste and Jase’s friends laugh and joke with one another. At one point, their friend Killian announces he and his wife, Giselle, are expecting their second baby. Everyone congratulates them, and then Olivia, another friend of Celeste’s, announces she and her husband, Nick, are also expecting. It will be their third, and they are beyond ecstatic. Not able to take another second of being surrounded by all these happy couples—knowing my husband is somewhere most likely fucking his secretary—I duck out quietly and head inside. I’m not ready to go home yet, but I also don’t want to be around people, so I slip into Celeste and Jase’s bedroom, so I can use their bathroom without running into anyone.
I go pee, wash my hands, and then find myself sitting on the edge of the tub, unsure of where to go from here. What if I did run? What if I took whatever cash I could find and bought an old, used car to drive away from here? Would he search for me? Hell, he doesn’t even like me. I don’t understand why he even wants to keep me. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. If I ran away now, would he even think twice about me? I could send him divorce papers from wherever I end up and hope he signs them. I could raise my baby in a loving home by myself. But what if he comes after me? What if one day while I’m walking down the street, taking the baby for a walk, he finds me? He would take my baby. I know he would. He would make me regret leaving, every single day for the rest of my life.
I’m not even aware I’m crying, until a soft voice interrupts my thoughts. “You okay?” I look up and see Celeste standing in front of me.
“I think I’m pregnant,” I admit nervously.
“And that’s a bad thing…” she says carefully. I hate that she treats me like I’m fragile, but it’s my fault. Both my brothers are happy and in love, and I want what they have. I want to be in love, and being around them every day has become harder and harder. So I’ve just stopped coming around. It’s easier this way.
Not knowing what to say to Celeste, I just shrug.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” She pulls a box of pregnancy tests out from under the counter.
“You keep tests on hand?” I ask, shocked.
“We’ve been trying for the last year,” she admits. As she rips the test open, she tells me how difficult it’s been for them. The first time they got pregnant, it happened rather quickly, and they had twin daughters, Mariah and Melina, who are now two years old.
She hands me a disposable cup to pee in, and I blurt out, “I’m sorry, Celeste. Here I am, unsure if I’m happy or sad that I’m most likely pregnant, and you’re wishing for a baby.”
“Everyone has their own stories,” she says with a soft smile. “Take it, and I’ll be right here with you.”
A few minutes later, the test confirms what I already knew. I’m pregnant. Celeste, as if she knows exactly what I need in this moment, pulls me into a hug. “Jase and I will be here for you no matter what.” Not wanting to lose it right here in her bathroom, I thank her and tell her I’m going to head home.
“Okay. If you need anything, call me.”
When I get to my car—a Porsche Cayenne Rick bought me for my birthday a couple years ago—I lay my head against the steering wheel and let every emotion out I’ve been holding in. As my chest racks with gut-wrenching sobs, I allow myself to mourn over the loss of myself, my future, the loving family I long for. With every tear that falls, I’m one step closer to accepting my fate. And when all my tears have released, and I’m incapable of shedding another drop of salty liquid, I turn my car on and drive home.
* * *
The sound of my phone continuously vibrating against the top of my nightstand wakes me from a restless sleep. I contemplated leaving Rick more than a hundred times last night. Packing up my stuff and taking off. But in order to do that, I need to plan, and by the time I figure it all out, I’ll already be showing and he’ll know I’m pregnant.
Reaching over, I grab the phone and press answer without even looking at who’s calling. “Good evening, I’m calling from New York General Hospital. May I please speak to Quinn Thompson?” New York General?
“This is she,” I say, sitting up slightly. Pulling the phone from my ear, I quickly check the time: two a.m.
“For security purposes, can you please confirm your current physical address and date of birth?” she asks.