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With dramatic flair, she rolls her eyes. “No, I don’t miss them. Why would I? I’m still dealing with your stalker ex.”
I’ve blocked him on everything personal, but my agent isn’t comfortable blocking the hockey star on my public accounts. She says his thirsty comments bring me notoriety.
“And I don’t want to go home—far from it.” She throws her hands up in exasperation. “I want you to care for yourself before you burn out.”
“Seriously, I’m fine.” Another yawn.
She shakes her head in frustration and stands. “Don’t stay up late. You have an early meeting and then a shoot in the fashion district.”
Stay up late? I’m already falling asleep.
“Aurora. Aurora.Aurora.” Emily raises her voice and nudges my shoulder.
“Hmm?” Didn’t she say I needed rest? Why is she waking me?
“It’s seven in the morning. You need to get up!”
The blanket is ripped from my body, and I bolt upright. I’m ready to ask her why I slept on the couch for nearlyfifteen freaking hourswhen a wave of nausea hits me. I rush to the bathroom and fall to my knees in front of the toilet, expelling everything I’ve eaten in days.
Once my stomach has settled, I rise on shaky legs. I hate throwing up, but unfortunately, it happens with my anxiety, along with panic attacks and, on rare occasions, fainting. Or what I call,taking a nap from reality.
I step out of the bathroom, and Emily is there, arms crossed over her chest, eyes glaring.
“This is the fourth day you’ve been sick.”
“I know. I know. I’ll see someone. Honestly, though, I’m only sick—”In the morning.
We stare at each other, my mouth hanging open and her jaw clenched.
Exhaustion, forgetfulness, nausea.Ethan. The broken condom.
Wait. I was on birth control…but was encouraged to stop when I started modeling…and I was throwing up from anxiety before the beach shoot. Did I even take it that night?
No. No. No. No. This isn’t happening.
I think back to my last period, struggling to recall the dates. I fail to remember, and terror sets in. I clutch my chest, unable to draw air into my lungs.
“How long?” she asks, reading my mind.
I can’t focus, only shake my head. I can’t be pregnant. Ican’t. It’ll ruin everything.
“I’ll get a test.”
I skip the panic attack and go straight to dissociating. I’m staring at the pasty-white bathroom wall, absently holding the positive test, when Emily enters.
She lowers herself and sits beside me. “I know you’re in shock. I know you think it’s the worst thing ever, but it’s not. You have options. You also have a meeting with the agency in less than an hour and a shoot right after. We have plenty of time to worry about this later.”
No. We don’t. We don’t have any time forthis.
I rest my head against the wall. I’m so fucking tired, tired of having the weight of the world on my shoulders.
A tear rolls down my cheek, and I shut my eyes.
“That’s it. That’s all you get to cry.” Her voice softens, and she wraps her arms around me. “We can cry all you want later, okay? I’ll even buy you ice cream.”
Somehow, I pick myself up from the floor and arrive at the meeting on time. Felicity, my agent, details my upcoming schedule, and I’m numb. Lifeless.
Over the next few months, I have obligations in New York, Miami, and Houston. On the bright side, I have a week-long respite in LA, during which I can plan for the future and break the news to Grams.