“You don’t look sick to me, beauty queen,” my boss says when I show up at the office.
That’s one of the things I wish I had known before another cheerleader convinced me to enter the Beauty Queen of America state pageant with her—or as most folks call it, Queen America. Back then, I’d just thought it would be an interesting way to earn some scholarship money. I had no idea I’d actually win.
But the thing about winning something like that is it comes to define you. So many people at work still call me Princess South Carolina, it’s not even funny. And just because I paraded across the stage in a bikini a couple of times, people think they can say anything they want to me. Because in their eyes, all I am is a title without feelings or a soul.
The memory of Cheslav sneering about how weak I am hits me again.
“Luckily, I’m pretty recovered,” I answer my boss, working hard to keep the resentment out of my voice. “If I was still too sick to work, I wouldn’t have been able to come into the office.”
“Everyone’s making too big a deal of it if you ask me,” a senior associate says later in the meeting. “Hey, Princess South Carolina, you think they’ll cancel the Beauty Queen of America pageant because of this flu bug going around?”
I shrug and sink down further in my seat. It’s crazy to think that just a few hours ago, I was in some rich hockey player’s penthouse having sex so good, it felt a little bit like love.
But it wasn’t. I force the memories of the four days with Cheslav to the back of my mind. Then I vote along with the majority of my co-workers to switch to a remote work model. And after work, I drop the letter I pre-stamped into the post office’s drive-up mailbox on my way home. It feels pretty dang formal.
Bye, Cheslav.
Bye, Illusion.
I’m back in the real world now.
And I’m done with Cheslav Rustanov.
Chapter Twelve
Except I’m not done with Cheslav Rustanov. Almost a month and no period later, I buy a pregnancy test along with all the food items I’ll need for the week on my Sunday grocery run.
I bury the test with frozen ravioli and ice cream I managed to find in the freezer aisle, but the cashier still pauses when she sees it. “Good luck, hon,” she says before scanning it through.
“Thank you,” I mumble even though I’m not sure if she’s rooting for me having a baby or not.
With COVID cases on the rise across the state, there were all sorts of rumors swirling that South Carolina was going to get hit with a stay-at-home order too.
Either way, less than an hour later, I know for a certainty that wishes of good luck don’t affect final outcomes. Two lines stare back at me from my bathroom sink. Two lines that mean I’m definitely pregnant.
All the cuss words go off in my head. What am I going to do? How am I going to handle this?
I stare at the test, totally paralyzed. I’m not weak like Cheslav called me. I’ve gone out of my way to be strong since my mother died.
But life feels very overwhelming right now. And it’s hard not to break down and cry after finding out I’m pregnant with a baby I didn’t plan for—in the middle of a pandemic. And the athlete who blackmailed me into having four days of hardcore sex with him is the father!
For a few moments, panic threatens to overwhelm me, but then I remind myself…strong black woman. I’m not going to freak out. I’m going to think and logic my way through this.
Okay, first question, am I keeping it? The answer to that question comes back a quick yes. I’m twenty-eight and at a point in my life where I can see myself being a good mom. And I have way more resources than my mom did.
The panic starts to recede as I run the numbers on my 2021 with a child in the mix. I can do this. At least I think I can.
I think about calling Cynda. But she has enough drama in her life. Some bitter doctor she used to date became her boss for, like, a whole minute before he fired her. Then he moved in with her—well not with her exactly. He’s living in the back house of the home she grew up in—but the point is, her life is a big old mess, and I feel bad adding my drama to it.
Not for the first time, I wish I could get in contact with Gina. She has a way of being encouraging, even when the odds are stacked against you. And I could use some encouragement right now.
But Gina sent Cynda and me a short email a couple of weeks ago, saying that she was visiting some aunt in Canada. To say we’d been surprised to read this was an understatement. We’d known her mother was Canadian—that had been all over her Queen America package.