Page 8 of Connor (Total Sinners #2)

Summer

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I grabbed the bathroom counter, staring down at the test like maybe, if I looked long enough, I could make it change. Like maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. But the proof was right there—two pink lines, bold and unforgiving, taunting me with their finality.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Nothing changed.

The nausea curled in my stomach, thick and suffocating, but this wasn’t just from stress anymore. No, this was something worse.

I sank down onto the closed toilet lid, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. My pulse pounded against my temples, loud, frantic. My entire body felt like it was short-circuiting, my mind spinning in endless, useless circles.

This can’t be happening.

But it was.

My fingers curled into my lap, nails biting into my palms, breath shuddering in my throat. I was careful. Always careful. But maybe not careful enough.

Two months.

The weight of it slammed into me all at once.

I didn’t have to do the math—I already knew.

That last night with Connor.

My lungs locked. My throat stiffened. My heart beat so hard it hurt.

I clamped my hands over my stomach, trying to steady myself, but all I could hear was his voice.

All I could feel was him. His hands holding my hips, his body pressing me down, the sharp bite of his teeth against my skin.

The way we lost ourselves in each other, over and over, like we could make time stop if we just held on tight enough.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I had to stop thinking about it. About him.

About how I was alone in this now.

A choked breath scraped past my lips, something dangerously close to a sob. I wasn’t even sure when I’d started crying. I reached up, swiping at my face with trembling fingers, forcing myself to breathe, to think.

I had options.

I could call Victor.

Tell him the truth.

He’d come. Of course, he’d come.

But then what?

I could already picture it—the way his jaw would lock, the way his hands would curl into fists, the way he’d see this as just another reason why Connor McIntyre was a goddamn mistake.

And maybe he was right. Maybe I already knew that.

But that didn’t change anything.

I sucked in a shaky breath and let my hand drift to my stomach. My fingers splayed over the fabric of my hoodie—Connor’s hoodie. I hadn’t realized I was still wearing it. Hadn’t realized how tightly I was clutching it until my knuckles ached.

I let go.

I had to let go.

Victor couldn’t know. Not yet. Not until I figured out what the hell I was going to do. Because this wasn’t just about me. This wasn’t just about Connor. This was about a baby . A living, breathing, human.

I pushed off the toilet seat, grabbing the edge of the sink like it might hold me together. My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling too fast.

I looked like I was about to be sick again.

Maybe I was.

I forced myself to move, each step toward my bedroom feeling heavier than the last. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing me inside the too-quiet space, but it didn’t make me feel safer. It didn’t make this any less real.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand with shaking fingers and collapsed onto the bed, curling my legs up beneath me. The screen lit up, the glow too harsh in the dim room, but I barely noticed. I tapped open the browser and hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I didn’t even know what I was supposed to look up.

I swallowed hard and typed: What to do when you’re pregnant and nauseous.

The search results loaded in seconds. Morning Sickness: What Helps? Tips to Ease Nausea in Early Pregnancy … Is Morning Sickness Normal?

I clicked the first link, my breath shallow as I skimmed through the list. Eat small meals. Keep crackers by your bed. Sip ginger tea. Avoid strong smells. None of it helped. None of it made me feel like I wasn’t about to fall apart.

My stomach clenched again, this time for an entirely different reason.

I went back to the search bar and stared at it. My heart pounded against my ribs, a steady don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it— but I ignored it.

Slowly, carefully, I typed: How to tell your family about an unexpected pregnancy.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed enter, then realized it wouldn’t help and peeked open to see the screen filled with results.

Telling Your Parents You're Pregnant: A Step-by-Step Guide .

How to Break the News About an Unplanned Pregnancy…

How to Tell Your Family You're Expecting (When They Won't Be Happy). ..

My throat felt tight. My fingers trembled as I scrolled, reading the same advice over and over. Be honest. Stay calm. Give them time to process. Have a plan. Like it was that easy. Like they had any idea what my family was like.

I couldn’t remember the last time Vic or I had spoken to my parents.

Three years ago on my sweet sixteen, maybe?

No… Mom had said she’d come but then was given the opportunity to walk at a fashion show.

She loved the runway more than she loved the children who wrecked her beautiful body, and Dad…

Dad preferred his secretaries and the job he had in California.

They could give all the excuses they wanted, but they weren’t ever part of our lives and that wasn’t changing very soon.

If it weren’t for Vic… God, I didn’t know where I’d be.

The only persons I could tell my secret to were Vic and Connor.

Those two were the only ones that mattered.

I knew Victor would drop everything, pack his bags, and show up at my door before I even finished the sentence.

I knew he’d tear apart the shaky walls I was trying to build just to make sure I wasn’t alone in this.

I knew he would hate Connor if he ever found out.

I clenched my jaw and closed the tab, exhaling sharply. My fingers hovered over the keyboard again, frustration curling in my chest.

I didn’t know what I was looking for. Answers. Solutions. A way to make this all go away. But instead, I landed on a site I never should have clicked. Teen Pregnancy Forum: Your Stories.

I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, before I could stop myself, I tapped the link. The page loaded, filling the screen with an endless scroll of posts.

"I found out last week, and I don’t know what to do."

"My boyfriend left as soon as I told him."

My finger stalled on the last one. How would Connir react? We weren’t in any relationship for him to leave, how the hell would he react when I told him? I had to, didn’t I? I continued reading, my breath disappearing as more and more results popped up.

"Is abortion the best option if I have no support?"

"Thinking about adoption. Does it ever stop hurting?"

My breath hitched, and I realized I was shaking.

I needed to stop reading.

I needed to close the damn site.

But I couldn’t.

Not when the words were right there, staring at me, forcing me to acknowledge the truth I hadn’t let myself think about yet.

Abortion.

Adoption.

Keeping it.

My pulse roared in my ears. Why was I freaking out? I didn’t need to read the sites to know that those were my options. There wasn’t a way out of this. No magic fix. No undo button. No matter what I did, my life was about to change forever.

I had no idea how to handle it, but my finger pressed the exit button all on its own and I went to my messaging app—I found myself hovering over my last message to Connor. Then I switched the phone off and stared at the ceiling instead.

***

The next few days passed in a haze.

I barely ate. Barely slept. Every time I tried to force something down, my stomach rebelled, leaving me hunched over the toilet, dry heaving until there was nothing left.

It wasn’t just the nausea—it was the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on my chest, the constant feeling that I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t see the bottom of.

I went to class, but I didn’t absorb a word. The professors’ voices turned into background noise, the scribbles in my notebook meaningless. The nausea came in waves—sometimes dull and manageable, other times sharp and unbearable. I tried to hide it, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

People noticed when you barely touched your food.

But no one said anything.

Maybe because I didn’t give them a reason to.

I was careful. Careful to sit in the back, careful to keep my head down, careful to pretend everything was normal even though I felt like I was falling apart.

And maybe I was.

Maybe I already had.

I needed air.

By the time Friday rolled around, my legs carried me out of the apartment before I could talk myself out of it. The air was crisp, the last traces of summer heat fading into something cooler. I wrapped my arms around myself as I walked, my sweater too thin for the slight bite in the wind.

I didn’t know where I was going until I was already there.

The diner sat on the corner of the street, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the early evening light. I hadn’t been inside yet, but I’d passed it enough times to know it was always open, always warm, always smelled like sugar and coffee and something fried.

I hesitated for half a second before pushing the door open.

The bell jingled overhead, the scent of butter and cocoa wrapping around me instantly. The place wasn’t crowded—just a few people scattered in booths, nursing coffee cups, picking at plates of fries.

I let out a slow breath and made my way to the counter, sliding onto one of the stools.

A waitress in a blue apron wandered over, her brown curls piled on top of her head, a pen tucked behind her ear. She gave me a polite smile as she pulled out her notepad.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

My throat was dry. My stomach still twisted with nausea, but this—this was what I wanted.

“Hot chocolate,” I said, voice softer than I meant it to be. “With whipped cream, if you have it.”

Her smile warmed. “Best in town.”

She turned, grabbing a ceramic mug from the stack, and I let my hands rest on the counter, fingers tracing invisible patterns against the surface.

It had been days since I let myself breathe.

Days since I let myself stop thinking about the test sitting under my bathroom sink, about the clock ticking down inside my own body, about the decision I still couldn’t bring myself to make.

But here, under the soft hum of diner music, with the murmur of conversation around me, and the smell of fried food and something sweet in the air—just for a second, I felt like maybe I could pretend.

Pretend that I was just a girl waiting for a drink. Not a girl carrying a secret too big for her to hold.

The moment shattered as soon as the door swung open.

I didn’t look up at first. I kept my eyes on the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of my hot chocolate as the waitress handed it to me, letting the steam brush against my face.

“Thank you,” I murmured, already moving toward a quiet table in the corner.

The rich scent of cocoa and melted whipped cream should have been comforting. Should have been grounding.

But then I heard them.

A familiar laugh—low, a little rough around the edges. North. And then Quinn’s voice, light and teasing, as they stepped inside. My stomach clenched.

I kept still. They hadn’t seen me yet. They were too caught up in their own conversation, their presence folding into the background noise of the diner.

I told myself I could sit here. That I could stay unnoticed. That I could sip my hot chocolate and let them pass right by me, that it wouldn’t matter, that it wouldn’t mean anything.

But my body had other plans.

The nausea surged without warning.

One second, I was fine—well, as fine as I had been for the past few days. The next, my stomach twisted sharply, the rich scent of chocolate suddenly unbearable, cloying, suffocating.

No. Not now.

I barely made it inside before I collapsed in front of the toilet.

The nausea ripped through me, violent and unrelenting. My fingers dug into the cool porcelain as my body tried to rid itself of something that wasn’t even there. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the worst to pass, waiting to feel like I wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

But then—footsteps. Slow. Measured. Stopping just outside the bathroom door. Then a voice. Low. Familiar. North. And a quieter voice. Quinn.

“Summer?” she murmured, knocking on the door.

I froze. Shit.