Page 29 of Full Out Fiend

Daphne

Irestmyforeheadon the cool, smooth edge of the toilet bowl, willing my stomach to settle as I pull in a shaky breath.

With both hands planted on the floor, I hoist myself up and reach for my toothbrush for the third time tonight.

My throat is raw.

My heart is ravaged.

I can’t believe this is happening.

After years of being told it might be hard to conceive because of my heavy, irregular periods—the improbable has actually happened.

I haven’t told anyone. I’ve barely been able to admit it to myself.

But six pregnancy tests—six brands of pregnancy tests—can’t all be wrong. And the intense, unshakable nausea I’ve felt for the last few days is pretty irrefutable evidence.

When I’ve finish brushing my teeth, I stare at the sallow-cheeked girl in the mirror. My mouth barely curves upward in a pathetic attempt at a smile. The tears I’ve worked hard to hold back all day gather along my lower lids, and this time I let them fall.

I start my nighttime skincare routine over, careful to avoid applying serum to my neck in case it triggers my nausea again. Thankfully, after I throw up, my stomach seems to settle for a few hours. I should have just enough time to curl up in bed and fall asleep before the next wave of morning sickness hits.

Morning sickness. What a joke of a name. More likemourning sicknessas I think about the delicious pasta and salad I just flushed down the toilet.

My phone pings from where I left it in my bedroom, but I don’t bother rushing to retrieve it.

I was just with Serena—we had dinner after work—and I don’t want to deal with anyone else right now. I’m not fit for human interaction. What I need is to get some rest before another full day of clients tomorrow.

I wrap up my routine, using the tips of my fingers to blend my eye cream with the tears that won’t stop.

I turn the lock on my bedroom door before making my way over to the bed. It’s not that I think anyone will try to come in during the night, but being back in my childhood bedroom does funny things to my sense of self and security.

I pick up my phone to set my alarms, noticing the text that came through while I was in the bathroom. My stomach somersaults when I see the name of the sender.

Melissa: You’ll never guess who I just ran into…

I can practically hear her taunting me through the text. But it’s the accompanying photo that makes me question whether I need to run back to the bathroom and puke again.

It’s an out-of-focus picture of Fielding, a.k.a., the man I ghosted in the midst of a one-night-stand four weekends ago. Memories I once hoped I’d never forget slam into me, every detail about that night, as I study the blurry profile shot.

I hate to blindside him like this. I hate to be dependent on Anthony’s menacing cousin to help me. But if she’s with Fielding—apparently at the scene of the crime—she’s my only viable option.

Daphne: You’re at The Oak, right? Can you tell him I need to talk to him? I can be there in thirty minutes.

Melissa: You might as well carpool with Anthony. I already called him, and he’s on his way.

Fucking Melissa.

She hasno ideawhat kind of trouble she’s causing. I’m throwing my hair into a messy bun and reaching for my yoga pants a moment later. Then I grab my purse and dig out my keys, moving faster than I have all week.

Chapter 18

Fielding

I’vebeensittingatThe Oak for half an hour. What I’m waiting for, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m just not willing to face the reality of the situation.

Daphne’s ex-fiancé is on his way. I have no clue what the fuck I’ll say to him. Melissa has already made damn sure he knows who I am—but if she won’t contact Daphne for me, this might be my only hope.

Every fiber in my being is sayingGO. Leave. Forget it.