Page 47 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

A fter lots of whining on my part, Nova finally convinced me to leave the house .

Which is why I’m sitting on a pale pink cushion at a café where everything looks like it was designed specifically to be photographed and posted to social media.

Floral walls.

Custom cocktails are being carried past us in delicate crystal coupe glasses, garnished with dehydrated citrus and tiny clothespins clipped to the rim.

Fussy finger foods arrive on slabs of marble.

Everything’s drizzled or foamed or micro-sprouted.

There’s a neon pink sign behind us that reads “You’re Like, Really Pretty. ”

I want to die.

Our waitress wore a matching linen set and called us “queens,” which I’m not sure if it’s meant to be empowering or just part of the schtick. And my salad? That came on a literal cutting board with edible flowers and zero croutons.

Nova looks like she belongs here. Big sunglasses. Gold hoops. That confident glow people have when they’ve had regular sex and emotional stability for more than a month.

“Love that you’re feeling better,” she tells me. “It was getting annoying that you’re living in the same city yet I still barely see you.”

My head jerks up. “What are you talking about? I see you.”

She scoffs. “Poppy, the last time we were in the same room together was the night we went to Mile High Club, and you started sleeping with Skaggs.”

Skaggs.

Haven’t heard him called that in months.

And hearing it makes my heart hurt.

“I know things are messy with him, but isolating isn’t helping. You need people. Sunlight. Cute drinks.”

She’s not wrong.

I just don’t love being called out while my stomach is still in the process of healing.

Even now it churns as the server sets a steaming plate of wontons in the center of our table.

“I’m fine. I just needed sleep,” I lie because apparently, pushing people away is the only thing I’m good at now.

Nova leans back, sipping her iced tea like she’s preparing for a deposition. “Have you even spoken to him?”

I hesitate. “He texted.”

“ And ?”

“And… I said I didn’t need anything. Said I was doing good and not to worry.”

“Wow.” Nova groans. “That is not the same as talking. What you’re doing is the equivalent of brick walling.”

I hate it when she makes up random phrases. Brick walling? What even is that…

“I didn’t want to sound pathetic.”

“You don’t sound pathetic.” She gives me a look as she reaches for an appetizer. “You were sick, not thirst-trapping.”

True.

Still, I don’t know how to explain the weird knot in my chest. How hearing from him made me feel better for five seconds and worse for five hours.

The truth is—I do miss him.

Not just the sex. Not just the way he used to let me put my cold feet on him during movie nights.

I miss his laugh. His steadiness. The quiet little ways he took care of me without making a show of it.

I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere.

To someone.

Nova breaks my internal spiral with a quiet, “You know you can still fight for something even if you were the one who walked away, right?”

Can I? I’m not sure about that.

Because it doesn’t matter how much I miss him, or how often I find myself staring at the stupid mug he used to drink his protein sludge out of, or how I still sleep on the right side of my bed like he might walk in and take the other half.

I left.

I made the choice to pack up my things and walk away.

“Do you think he’s mad at me?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

Nova tilts her head. “Mad? No. Hurt? Probably.”

I nod slowly, picking at a spinach leaf.

“I don’t know Skaggs as well as you do,” she says. “But I don’t think he’s the type of man to throw tantrums. He goes quiet. Pulls everything inward the same way you do.”

“I told him I didn’t need anything.”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning in. “But do you want something?”

Of course I do.

I want him.

I pick at my salad, nibbling at the purple flower. It’s bitter. And oddly enough: soapy?

My stomach lurches at the taste in my mouth.

I press my hand to my middle, trying to keep my expression neutral, but the wave hits fast—nausea creeping up my throat like it has a vendetta.

Nova’s still talking, but her words fade into background fuzz. The world tips just slightly sideways, and all the air seems to vanish from the café.

“Hey,” I say quickly, pushing back my chair with a squeak. “I need a minute.”

Nova’s brows pull together. “Poppy?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, already halfway out of my seat. “I just—bathroom. Too much hydration or something.”

I make a beeline past the servers, past the neon signs and the girl taking selfies with her avocado toast, and duck into the bathroom at the back.

Instant sensory overload.

Pink. So much pink.

Floral wallpaper wraps the walls in an aggressive explosion of white roses, like being swallowed whole by a botanical barf. The tile floor is a shiny blush-and-hot pink checkerboard, every surface gleaming like it was polished with Windex.

The air smells like citrus and expensive hand soap. There’s a tiny framed print that says “You look amazing.”

I do not feel amazing.

I feel like shit.

I barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, clutching the seat like it’s a lifeline.

My stomach turns inside out. Again.

I have nothing left to give. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not even stomach acid. Just dry heaves and silent curses and the overwhelming urge to evaporate into thin air.

I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep it together. Which is ironic, considering the literal puddle of disaster I am right now.

Someone knocks.

Not on the stall door—but on the bathroom door itself.

Then I hear her voice.

“Poppy?”

Shit.

“Poppy, open up. It’s me.”

I groan, hoist myself up with trembling legs, and manage to unlock the door before collapsing back down on the closed toilet lid, head in my hands.

Nova slips inside, closing the door behind her and locks it again, stepping carefully over my purse, which I flung across the floor as I got down on my knees by the toilet.

“Oh babe,” she murmurs, crouching over to me, tucking my hair back with one hand and rubbing my back with the other. “Talk to me, how you feeling? Is it food poisoning? Did you drink something weird?”

Too many questions…

“No,” I say, voice muffled. “I think I’m broken.”

Above me, my best friend laughs. “You’re not broken.” She’s quiet a few moments. “Um. So obviously I have to ask…” Her voice drops another octave. Barely a whisper. “Have you considered the fact that you might be… you know .”

I freeze, forehead still pressed to the cool side of the toilet seat. My stomach clenches—whether from nausea or nerves, I’m not sure.

Nova strokes my hair. “Poppy. I’m not trying to freak you out, I just—this isn’t the first time you’ve felt like total shit lately.”

I don’t answer.

Because yeah, I’ve considered it.

Still not ready to say the words.

She nudges me slightly. “Do you want me to go get a test? I’ll tell the server we want the bill while you clean yourself up. You can wait here. We’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t know if I can pee right now.”

My best friend chuckles softly above me. “I didn’t mean pee on a test right this second; we can go back to your place where it’s private.”

I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “But what if it’s positive?”

Nova doesn’t miss a beat. “Then we deal with it. Simple as that.”

Simple as that. Like she’s not talking about potentially flipping my entire life upside down and shaking it until everything falls out. I just moved to Texas for pities sake!

“I don’t even know how this happened,” I mumble, immediately wanting to smack myself in the forehead because—duh. I know how it happened.

I was there.

“Well. If you need me to draw you a diagram?—”

“Stop making me laugh.”

Nova continues rubbing my back and stroking my hair. “Look, we’re not doing anything until you feel ready. But just in case, I’ll run to Target on the way to taking you home.”

I squint up at her. “You’re always looking for any excuse to go shopping.”

“Guilty.” She shrugs.

“Ugh, why is this freaking me out so much?”

She pats me on the top of the head like a mother hen. “Because you’re human.”

There, there …

Nova stays with me like this for another beat, patting me while I crouch on the bathroom floor like we’re two drunk college girls recovering from a raucous night out. She doesn’t seem to care that the stall smells vaguely of lemon disinfectant and puke—and if she does, she’s isn’t mentioning it.

Then, with a grunt, she rises to her feet and extends both hands to me.

“Come. Let’s get you up. I’m not letting you melt into a puddle of filth.”

I let her pull me up.

My legs wobble like I’ve just run a marathon in heels. Which is funny, because all I’ve done is sit, drink one sad cocktail, and spiral.

She brushes imaginary lint from my shoulders and then fishes a mint from her purse, pressing it into my palm. “Here. In case the server tries to offer you dessert and you accidentally hurl again.”

I manage a weak laugh. “You’re such a giver.”

“That’s what Luca says!”

I groan at her cheese.

Nova bites down on her bottom lip after she puts her car into park in front of my new apartment. “Maybe I should come up with you—just for tonight. I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

I shake my head.

The thought of having company right now—of having anyone in my space—feels suffocating.

I need to think. Take this test.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, forcing a smile. “Seriously. I want to sleep.”

She opens her mouth to argue, then snaps it shut, clearly debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs. “Text me as soon as you…you know. Do the thing.”

“I will.”

By the time I unlock the door to my apartment, the Target bag is crinkling in one of my sweaty fists as I toss my keys onto the console table and toe off my shoes, stepping into the soft glow of the living room.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Lonely.

I miss Turner…

Watching a movie doesn’t help; there is nothing I want to watch. No books I want to read. Nothing interesting to scroll on my phone.

When it buzzes I don’t even have to look to know it’s Nova checking in on me. I answer and immediately prop it against the Nespresso, tilting the screen just enough so she can see my face but not my state of emotional wreckage.

She’s already in pajamas, hair piled in a top knot, holding a spoon and what looks like a tub of brownie batter.

“I thought you’d be on the toilet already,” she announces. “I grabbed you a face mask, chocolate, and a tiny candle that smells like hope in a jar, too, just in case.” Pause. “You’re welcome.”

I tilt my head toward the ceiling. The Target bag sits across the room on the counter, out of reach but not out of sight. Taunting me.

“Why are you so good to me?”

“So… you going to pee or are we just going to vibe next to the toaster all night?”

She’s right.

No time like the present.

Still. I let the silence stretch on a few more seconds, eventually forcing myself off the couch. My legs feel heavier than they should as I cross the room, fingers closing around the box like it might burn me.

Take the test from the bag. Stare at it. “Shit. Am I ready for this?”

“You have every right to want to wait.”

I nod, throat tight. But my feet are already moving, carrying me down the short hall toward the bathroom. My hands shake as I tear open the box, plastic wrapper crinkling too loud, echoing off the white tile.

“I’m going to mute you so you can’t hear me peeing, but don’t hang up,” I tell her, reaching for the phone, muting it, and setting it on the counter.”

“Nope.”

I set the test on the counter. Wash my hands. Brush my hair back.

Then I sit on the toilet, willing myself to pee.

Wait.

And breathe.

Misson accomplished, I place the capped stick on the counter and set the timer on my phone.

Three minutes.

Longest. Three. Minutes. Ever.

Nova’s voice is faint but still there. Comforting. Present.

And all I can think is, “ please, please, please… let it be negative.”

I lean my head back against the bathroom wall, tile cold against my spine. The silence roars. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that lets every worst-case scenario echo.

I close my eyes.

Try to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

I think about every time I’ve felt off this week. Every time my stomach clenched. Every time my body didn’t feel like mine. Every time I dismissed it.

Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Stress.

But now?

Now all I can think about is Turner’s hands on my hips. The way he kissed my neck. The way he whispered my name like it meant something.

The sharp sting behind my eyes threatens tears, but I force them down.

The timer on my phone hasn’t even moved. Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds left and I know I could check before the timer goes off but what if?—

I drum my fingers against the edge of the counter. My knee bounces like it’s trying to run for the door as I look up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I look pale. And horrible.

I don’t even realize I’m whispering out loud when I say, “I’m not ready for this.”

Not ready to tell Turner.

Not ready to face what this could mean.

Nova’s voice filters in the phone. “This episode of The Great British Bake Off is crap, by the way. Why are all the biscuits so fucking soggy?”

I laugh.

Ninety seconds left.

My stomach twists again.

I close my eyes.

Start counting my breaths.

One. Two. Three?—

“Bollocks,” Nova interjects. “That cake looks like utter shite.”

Another second passes.

I tap the floor with my heel.

Try to remember what day I last got my period. Everything blurs together—moving, work, Turner kissing me in the pool.

Thirty seconds.

I close my eyes again. “I can’t look.”

“Dammit. I knew I should have insisted on going home with you.”

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The timer buzzes.

My heart stutters.

Time to look…