Page 65 of Babies for the Big Shot

My body slumps sideways, cheek pressed to the cool tile. I hear the front door close behind her, the click of the lock. And then it’s just me.

Alone.

Curled on the bathroom floor of my best friend’s apartment. Sick, sweating, gutted.

I close my eyes, just for a second, and try to block everything out. But Nick’s face surfaces anyway. That half-smile he only ever gave me. The way his voice dipped when he used my name. The feel of his hand on my waist as if it belonged there.

And now?

He’s gone.

Not technically. Not physically. He’s still showing up to work and sending morning agendas. Still moving through the world like nothing happened.

But for me? Everything has changed.

I curl tighter, nausea simmering again, not just in my stomach but in my chest, in my throat, in the hollow place where all my hopes were living just a week ago.

The bathroom light hums overhead. A speck of lint floats just past my nose. The world hangs silently, cold and unyielding, as if waiting for a punchline I’ll never understand.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. I don’t move.

Then the door opens again, the sound of footsteps and rustling plastic bags.

“Okay,” Laura calls out. “I panic-bought like five different brands because I didn’t know which one was better. Also, ginger chews and electrolyte packets in case this is actually a stomach bug.”

I hear her heading down the hall.

“Also crackers. And saltines. And this weird seaweed thing I don’t remember buying. I blacked out in aisle five, apparently.”

She rounds the corner, breathless and full of chaotic empathy. Sees me still on the floor.

“Oh, babe.”

She kneels again, pushing the bag toward me. Inside: three pregnancy tests.

“For accuracy,” she says softly.

I stare at them, waiting for them to hiss and bite.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I reach for the first one, then pull back. My palm is damp. Cold. Useless.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Laura doesn’t move. “You can. I’ll be right here.”

I nod, pretending to believe her. It changes nothing. Inside, my thoughts spiral, tight, burning, nauseous, every possible outcome shouting over the next in a relentless storm.

I fumble with the box, almost drop the wrapper, finally manage to wrestle the test free.

It takes less than a minute to pee on the stick, but the seconds stretch out, heavy and unbearable. I place the test on the edge of the sink and step back as if it’s a live grenade ready to detonate.

Three minutes.

That’s forever.

I can’t look.

I pace.