Page 100 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

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Lila

My stomach is really angry right now. It’s gurgling and cramping like nobody’s business.

Sure, it’s probably because I’ve just eaten my body weight in Christmas cookies after a plateful of turkey, mashed potatoes, and various other Christmas Dinner delights. But I’m allowed to indulge when in the comforts of my family home, right?

To be honest, my gluttony was ill-timed. I haven’t been feeling well for days. How could I think that binging on my favorite holiday foods wouldn’t add to my increasing misery?

“You okay?” my mom asks.

I blink at her across the table. “I ate too much. My stomach’s not great.”

“Oh,” she says sympathetically, “why don’t you go lie down for a bit. I can get you some ginger ale.”

I nod and stand slowly, picking up my plate carefully so I don’t pitch it onto the floor because I feel a little lightheaded all of a sudden.

“No, no, just leave it. Go lie down,” she orders.

“That last piece of pecan pie get ya, then?” my dad asks from the other end of the table.

I force a smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

I head to the stairs and up toward my bedroom, but I don’t even make it, nausea rising in my throat so that I have to race to the guest bathroom, vomiting violently.

My mom finds me there, head on the toilet seat. She pulls my hair away from my face into a ponytail and helps me to my feet, handing me some ginger ale to swish around. It calms my stomach somewhat—for about thirty-seconds. Then I’m right back down on my knees praying to the porcelain god.

“Geesh,” she says, putting the back of her hand against my forehead as moms do. “Can’t keep anything down then, hey?”

I cringe and shake my head.

“Well, you don’t seem to have a fever. Must just have a little stomach thing. Should I call Dr. Whitstone?”

“Dr. Whitstone was my pediatrician. Just to remind you, I am twenty-three now.”

“You want to go to urgent care then?”

I stand, shaking my head. “No, Mom. It’s no big deal…I’ll be okay.”

Of course, as I say that, my vision goes fuzzy, and I feel myself going weightless as my legs come out from beneath me.

Blinking back to reality is so strange. So many sensations to make sense of. Why am I on the floor in the guest bathroom? And why is my mom, the fashion designer, using a hand towel to fan my face?

Sometime later, hours or days or weeks later, I’m back in my bed because the covers and sheets are soft and soothing and smell like mine. I must have fallen asleep because I’m jolted awake by the booming voice of the doctor, who apparently still makes house calls.

“Well, you look taller than the last time I saw you,” Dr. Whitstone jokes.

I’m not. The last time I saw him was for a sports physical in my senior year of high school for swim season. Still, I take a moment to stare daggers at my mom, hovering over by the door. “Well, I might be taller, but I’m also a grown adult now so that’s to be expected.”

He chuckles lightly. “You are correct. You are now an adult, and I am technically a pediatrician. But your mother was worried, and when Melanie Marchmont calls, you show up.”

He’s not wrong. My mother is formidable.

She’s tall and fit and looks ten years younger than she really is.

Her long, light brown hair hangs in perfect waves over her shoulders.

She wears a Marchmont Exclusive dress tailored specifically to her perfect body.

Even if I didn’t know her, I wouldn’t underestimate her, even as she stands, arms folded across her chest, worried about her daughter.

“I’ll let the doctor do his work,” Mom says to me as she heads for the door. “Thanks for coming over on Christmas Day, John, that was very kind of you.”

“It’s all part of the job, Melanie.”

Dr. John Whitstone then goes about doing the normal vitals-check, taking my blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate. He has me open and say “Ahh” as he peers into my throat.

“I’m guessing something viral, but let me ask, when was your last period?”

“Right before Thanksgiving, I think?” I grab for my phone and open the app that tracks my cycle. Peering at it, I realize I’m overdue by more than a week. “I’m late.”

He lowers his voice to ask, “Any chance you could be pregnant?”

I start to say no. But the word won’t come out because I know it wouldn’t be true. Tripp and I had sex twice. He came inside of me twice. And I am not on birth control.

“Your silence tells me all I need to know,” he says, digging in his bag. “Can you go pee in this cup, please?”

I nod, my cheeks hot as I blush furiously, my stomach fluttering, my heart racing. Oh my God, what if I’m pregnant?

A few minutes later I’m handing that little cup over to my pediatrician—the doctor who’s been treating me since I was born—so he can test for pregnancy. After assuring me that, as an adult, my results are privacy-protected, Dr. Whitstone tells me he’ll call me in an hour with the results.

And when that call comes, I know the answer before it’s out of his mouth.

“You are indeed pregnant, Lila.” The five word sentence rings in my ears.

Over and over and over again.

I pace around my room, wringing my hands, trying to get my breathing under control.

I don’t want this. Not now. Maybe someday far into the future, but definitely not now.

I’m in a great internship. I have school starting next fall.

This should be prime career-building time for me.

I cannot, repeat, CANNOT have a baby. And not with a man who feels women should be raising said baby at home instead of working outside it at a career typically reserved for a man.

My fingers hover over the keyboard on my phone, typing about four different texts to Tripp, all deleted.

Finally, I just send two sentences. The words of which are not kind or even particularly accurate because I have nobody to blame for this but myself.

But still, the message is delivered, and Tripp will have been informed of the news.

Lila: You knocked me up.

Lila: I’ll get rid of it.

The bubbles light up as if he’s typing, but they stay like that for a very long time.

I mean, I can understand if he needs a moment to process.

How do you respond to a text like that? Especially after last speaking to each other six weeks ago when you shared a night of wildly indulgent but very unprotected sex.

And, oh, it’s Christmas. Merry Christmas, Tripp.

Tripp: Are you in Toronto?

Lila: Yes.

Tripp: Let’s talk

Lila: Not here.

Tripp: I’ll get us a suite at the Hilton

Tripp: Give me a half hour and I’ll meet you there in the lobby

Tripp: Will give us some privacy

Lila:

I sent a thumbs-up emoji, which looks ridiculous, like a clown thumb. I hate that stupid emoji, but it oddly represents pretty much how I feel right now.

I splash some water on my face and get dressed in clothes I don’t really pay attention to and attempt to sort my hair into some semblance of respectability so I can leave the house without the cops being called.

I tromp down the stairs without thinking I should be stealthy about it because if my mom hears me and realizes I’m about to go somewhere, she’s gonna want to know where and why and how.

As mothers do. You know, answers to the understandably logical questions you ask your daughter when she’s leaving the house to go out at night on Christmas Day—

“Where are you going, Lila Jayne?” she asks from behind me as my hand literally touches the front door.

Busted.

I turn around and lie to my mother’s concerned face like the psycho I am right now. “I know it’s late, but Cassie’s in town. She leaves in the morning, so I’m just running over to say hello. I was just going to call an Uber, so…”

Cassie is my best friend from high school. She actually is in town, and she really did ask me to come over. However, she’s operating as cover for now. My mom takes the bait, though I can tell she’s a little suspicious.

“But are you sure you’re feeling up to it? You were so sick earlier.”

“I feel better now, and we’re just going to catch up. I’ll be back in no time.”

She makes a slash with her hand and a “mom noise” that ends further discussion on the matter. “Take my car, please. I don’t want you in an Uber on Christmas. And be careful.”

Be careful refers to the car, not to my personal self.

My mother drives a shiny, black Range Rover that probably costs more than my college education.

It makes me nervous to drive it, so nervous that I’m shaking by the time I hand it over to the valet at the Hilton where Tripp will be waiting for me.

Or maybe I’m shaking because I’m about to see Tripp for the first time since we did the thing that got us to this point right here.

And he’s there, waiting in the lobby for me, just like he said he would be.

Looking just as tall, handsome, and strong as always.

As Tripp Blackburn has always been, all my life.

He spots me and rushes forward as I sort of forget how to walk and talk.

But it’s okay because Tripp sweeps me into a warm hug, his face buried at my neck, my face plastered to his chest. I start to cry the moment his strong arms enfold me, but oddly feel a bit more tethered to the earth than I did before.

“Come on.” Taking charge, he puts his arm around me, leading me towards the elevator bank.

It feels like forever that it takes us to get up to the floor and down the long hallway to the suite. And it is a suite, with a lavishly appointed living space, a lit fireplace separating it from a full kitchen, and a separate bedroom with a view of the city.

“This is awfully fancy.”

He stares at me for a moment before he speaks. “I thought you might be feeling trapped right now. I figured more space would be better.”

My mouth falls open. How thoughtful, is in my brain, though it doesn’t come out of my mouth. Instead, my mouth says, “I don’t want a baby.”