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The door to the ladies’ room slams open and heels tap on the floor.

They stop in front of my stall.

“Erin?” Kara raps on the door.

“What?”

“Are you alive in there?”

I groan. “I’m not sure. I might be dead and in hell.”

“Come on out. Now.”

With a groan, I get up and unlock the door.

“You look horrible,” she says. “All pale and pathetic.” She’s clutching two bags.

“What… what are you doing?” I ask, sounding possibly more pathetic than I look.

She looks at the bags, then at the sinks where my computer bag sits, and then at me. “What do you think? I’m escorting you home. I told them you have the flu.”

Kara takes my elbow and steers me out and into the elevator. When we’re finally in her car—I took public transport today—I close my eyes.

“How long has it been?”

“About a week of feeling worse and worse?—”

“Not the being sick. How long since New York?”

“Four weeks.”

“Right.” She abruptly pulls to a stop, and I open my eyes. She’s running into the pharmacy she’s somehow managed to get a spot in front of. When she comes out, she hands me a Gatorade in lemon-lime.

“I don’t like?—”

“Drink it. There’s also Pedialyte in here, so…”

I take her threat under advisement and open the lid. Christ, I must be ill if the smell of the Gatorade is appealing. I take a sip and end up drinking half the bottle.

By the time we get out of the car at my apartment complex, she’s in full control, herding me in, pushing me toward the bathroom. And she hands me the bag from the pharmacy.

I peek inside and screech. “I don’t need a pregnancy test.”

“Your eating habits changed. You’re throwing up every morning. You look like shit. When was your last period?”

“It’s due…” I trail off. It was due two weeks ago, and I didn’t even think. “I’ve been busy. So?—”

“Erin, you’re like clockwork. By estimations, you’re twoweeks overdue. So, if you had a one-night stand in New York, that was four weeks ago. So. Go pee on a stick.”

I don’t say a word but go into the bathroom and do just that.

Ten minutes later, the door opens and Kara bursts in. I’m sitting on the edge of my bathtub, staring at the plastic stick.

She snatches it from me. “Shit.”

“Holy shit,” I say.

“Erin. You’re pregnant.” She pauses. “Congratulations?”