Page 16

Chapter 16

Cyn

I wake to Oscar's wet nose pressed against my cheek, his warm weight curled against my side. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my stomach churns with the memory of last night. The wedding. The speech. Garrett's concerned face as I bolted from the dance floor after projectile vomiting.

I groan and pull the blanket over my head, but the images keep flashing behind my eyelids, humiliation fresh as a new bruise.

My phone sits face-down on the nightstand. I can't bear to look at it yet.

After I had escaped to the bathroom, last night Sophie showed up almost immediately. She helped me get cleaned up while I completely freaked out.

My phone had buzzed with a text.

Garrett: OMG. Are you alright?

Me: Just wounded pride. Other than that, I feel okay.

Garrett: Are you coming back?

Me: No. Heading home so I don’t infect anyone.

Garrett: Let me know if I can do anything.

Me: I’ll be okay. Just need some time to sleep it off.

I managed to escape soon after, assuring Sophie I could get myself home, that it was just something I ate.

Oscar whines, sensing my distress. He licks my hand, his brown eyes full of doggy concern.

"At least you won’t hold it against me," I whisper, burying my fingers in his thick fur. "You've seen me at my worst and still think I'm amazing."

He woofs softly in agreement, his tail thumping against my leg. “I love you too, buddy.”

My stomach roils again, a not-so-gentle reminder that whatever hit me last night isn't done. I press my face into Oscar's fur, grateful for his presence, wishing I could disappear into his uncomplicated world where the only thing that matters is the next walk, the next treat, the next belly rub.

Eventually, I drag myself to the kitchen with Oscar padding behind me. My usual morning energy is AWOL, replaced by a hollow feeling that reminds me of the flu I caught during finals my senior year. The thought of food makes my stomach clench, but I know I need something.

"Just toast," I tell Oscar, who sits expectantly by his food bowl. "For me, not you. You get the fancy kibble."

The toaster clicks as I push the lever down. I measure coffee grounds carefully—normally a soothing ritual—but today the rich aroma catches in my throat. I swallow hard, pressing a hand against my abdomen.

"Weird," I mutter.

I love coffee. Live for it. The team nutritionist has lectured me about my four-cup-a-day habit, but I've never given it up. Today, though, the smell makes my insides twist.

The toast pops. I stare at it, suddenly uncertain. I force myself to spread a thin layer of butter, watching it slowly melt into the bread. My stomach lurches.

"Nope," I say, dropping the toast onto a plate. "Not happening."

I push it aside and rest my elbows on the counter, my head sinking into my hands. Oscar abandons his breakfast to press against my legs.

"I'm okay, buddy." I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself.

Where did I pick up a stomach bug? The wedding food? But that would have taken longer to kick in. I mentally trace back through what I ate Friday. Toast and coffee for breakfast. Lunch at a salad place with the team nutritionist on Friday. Takeout Thai Friday night from my regular place. I guess that could have been it…

The coffee maker beeps. I turn to it like facing an enemy.

I pour half a cup, lifting it cautiously to my lips. One sip. That's all I need to prove I'm fine.

The liquid touches my tongue, and my stomach immediately revolts. I barely make it to the sink before the meager contents of my stomach come up. It's mostly bile, burning my throat.

This isn't like me. I don't get sick. I'm the person who smugly takes vitamin C and goes for runs while colleagues drop like flies during flu season. My immune system is my pride and joy.

I stare out the small window above my sink. A perfect September sky mocks my misery. I should be out there, enjoying my day off, maybe taking Oscar to the dog park or meeting Garrett for brunch.

Garrett. My phone is still in the bedroom. I haven't checked it yet, too afraid of what he might say about the fallout after I left last night.

"Water," I tell myself firmly. "Saltines. Ginger ale. The stomach bug protocol."

But as I reach for a glass, a tendril of doubt unfurls in my chest. There's something not quite right about these symptoms, something I'm missing. I shake my head, dismissing the thought. It's just a bug. It'll pass.

It has to.

An hour later I’m sitting on the couch, trying to get into my favorite reality TV show when the thought hits me like a slap—sudden, stinging, impossible to ignore. I start counting backward, my mind a frantic calculator of days and dates and possibilities I've been too busy to notice.

"No," I say aloud. Oscar tilts his head, ears perked at my tone. "No way."

But the possibility, once acknowledged, refuses to retreat. Morning sickness. The term echoes in my head like a bad joke. Not stomach flu. Not food poisoning. Something else entirely.

When was my last period? I try to remember, but the days blur together. August was a mess—the Blades' pre-season ramping up, new rookies to evaluate, my schedule packed with assessments and preventative care plans.

I set the glass down with a sharp click and grab my phone from my bedroom. I swipe past Garrett's texts—three of them, I note with a pang of guilt—and pull up my cycle app.

What I find there makes my blood run cold. I’m late. Two weeks late. And I’m never late.

"Shit."

Oscar whines, picking up on my distress. I sink down onto my bed, legs suddenly unable to support me.

The birth control pills. My stomach drops as I recall the chaos of last month. There definitely had been a few days when I just forgot.

"But it's not like I missed a whole week straight," I tell Oscar, who has settled beside me, resting his big head on my knee. "Pregnancy doesn't just happen from missing a few pills."

Except it can. I know it can.

I rake my fingers through my hair, tangled from sleep and now damp with nervous sweat. My hand shakes as I press it against my still-flat stomach.

"Stop," I tell myself firmly. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

But am I? The symptoms align too perfectly. The nausea. The sensitivity to smells. Even the exhaustion I've been blaming on my workload.

A baby. The word feels foreign in my mind, impossible to connect to my reality. I'm twenty-five, barely established in my dream job. My student loans still loom like a mountain I'm only beginning to climb. I live in a one-bedroom apartment with a giant puppy.

And Garrett. What about Garrett? We’ve barely gotten to know each other, and we've never once discussed a future beyond next week. Does he even want children? Do I?

The panic rises in my chest, a wave threatening to drown me. I need to know. Now. Before my mind spins any further into this nightmare of what-ifs.

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights hum above me, too bright and too revealing. I keep my head down, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses in place despite being indoors. The last thing I need is someone from the team spotting me in the family planning aisle, speculation spreading through the locker room faster than a puck across fresh ice.

I grab three different brands of tests—because if my life is about to implode, I want statistical significance.

The teenage cashier barely glances at me, too engrossed in her phone to notice my white-knuckle grip on the basket or the way my credit card trembles between my fingers.

"Have a nice day," she drones.

I nod, clutching the paper bag to my chest like it contains state secrets.

The drive home is a blur. I catch myself pressing a hand to my abdomen at red lights, then yanking it away as if burned.

When I get back in my apartment I immediately head to the bathroom. Emptying the bag onto the counter, lining up the three boxes like suspects in a police lineup. Each one promises accuracy, early detection, clear results. The most expensive one even features a digital readout—no ambiguous lines to interpret. Just pregnant or not pregnant in black and white.

I tear open that one first, hands shaking so badly I almost drop the plastic stick into the toilet. The instructions blur before my eyes—something about holding it in the stream for five seconds, then waiting three minutes. Simple enough.

When I'm done, I set the test flat on a folded piece of toilet paper on the counter, then start the timer on my phone. Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds that might reshape my entire future.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub, knees bouncing, unable to look directly at the stick. Oscar scratches at the door, his concern evident in his persistent whining.

"Almost done," I tell him.

My phone buzzes. Time's up.

I don't move. If I don't look, the potential reality hovers in suspension.

"Get it together, Cyn," I mutter.

I stand on legs that feel disconnected from my body and approach the counter like it's rigged with explosives. The small window on the test faces up, its message already displayed.

Pregnant.

The word doesn't register at first. I blink, expecting it to change. It doesn't.

"No," I whisper.

My legs give out. I slide down against the wall to the floor, the cold tile seeping through my leggings. A strange numbness spreads through me, like I've been injected with novocaine from the inside out.

Pregnant.

Oscar's whining has escalated to concerned barking. I reach up with a leaden arm and unlock the door. He bursts in, immediately planting himself in my lap—all forty pounds of him—and licks my face.

It's only when I taste salt that I realize I'm crying.

"I'm pregnant," I tell him, the first time I've said the words aloud.

He stays, pressed against me as silent sobs rack my body. I'm not ready for this. Not financially, not professionally, not emotionally. My career is just beginning. My life is just beginning.

And now everything has changed.

Now I’m on the couch, but my mind is free-falling through space.

My dream job with the Blades. Six years of education and a mountain of student debt to get here. I'd beaten out twenty other applicants for this position—the only female physical therapist on staff. The athletes respect me. The coaches value me. I've spent every day proving I belong in that male-dominated space.

And now this.

My hands drift to my stomach, still flat and firm from my morning runs and weekly yoga sessions. How long before it swells, announcing my condition to everyone? How long before the whispers start? Before the questions about my "commitment" arise?

"They can't fire me for being pregnant," I tell Oscar, who blinks up at me with soulful eyes. "That's discrimination."

But they can make my life difficult. They can question my focus. They can pass me over for the career advancement I've been working toward.

And the money. God, the money. I pull my laptop closer and open my budget spreadsheet—a meticulously maintained document that tracks every dollar in and every dollar out. The numbers stare back at me, cold and unforgiving.

Student loans: $68,432 remaining.

Rent: $1,950.

Car payment: $325.

Utilities, groceries, Oscar's expenses, health insurance premiums, retirement contributions. It all adds up to a life I can just barely afford while making responsible financial choices.

And a baby? Diapers, formula, childcare—the costs pile up in my mind like a tower of blocks threatening to topple. My mother's voice echoes in my head: "Children are expensive, Cynthia. More expensive than you can imagine."

She would know. I remember the constant worry lines between her brows, the way she stretched every dollar, the nights she sat at our kitchen table surrounded by bills, calculating and recalculating, trying to make the numbers work.

I swore I'd never live that way. I'd be financially independent, beholden to no one. I'd build my career first, establish myself, save money. Only then would I consider a family—maybe, someday, with a partner whose commitment I was certain of.

Not like this. Not now. Not with a man I've known for such a short time, who may not want this any more than I do.

"I can't do this," I whisper. But even as the words leave my lips, I know that's not true. I can do this. I will do this. I’ll have to figure it out.

My phone buzzes from the coffee table. Garrett's name flashes on the screen. My stomach drops all over again.

I force myself to read the messages.

Garrett [9:17 AM]: Morning, sunshine. How are you feeling? Still under the weather?

Garrett [11:45 AM]: Getting worried about you. Let me know you're okay? I can bring over soup or whatever you need.

Garrett [12:30 PM]: Cyn?

Garrett [1:22 PM]: Please just let me know you're alive. I’m worried.

The genuine worry in his words makes my chest ache. I should call him. I should tell him. I should do anything but what I'm actually doing, which is typing the absolute minimum response.

Me: Hey! I'm alive. Just a bug.

The typing bubbles appear immediately. He's been waiting by his phone.

Garrett: Thank God. What can I bring you?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say? "Sure, come over and watch me panic about our accidental pregnancy"?

Me: Not today. I might be contagious. Thanks though!

The bubbles appear, disappear, then reappear. He's editing himself, choosing his words carefully. The Garrett I know is direct, straightforward. This hesitation tells me more than whatever he's about to say.

Garrett: Okay. I'm here if you need anything at all.

How am I going to tell him? When do I tell him? Should I even tell him at all?

The last thought brings a fresh wave of shame. Of course I have to tell him. It's his child too. He has a right to know. But the idea of saying the words out loud to him makes my stomach twist with a nausea that has nothing to do with morning sickness.

What if he thinks I did this on purpose? What if he thinks I'm trying to trap him? What if he wants me to get rid of it? What if he wants me to keep it?

I don't even know what I want yet. How can I face his reaction when I haven't processed my own?

My phone buzzes again.

Garrett: I'll check in tomorrow. Get some rest.

A heart. He's never sent me a heart before. The tiny red emoji sits on my screen like a bomb.

I should respond. Say something. Acknowledge the small but significant shift in communication. Instead, I set the phone face-down on the couch beside me and close my eyes.

Tomorrow I'll figure out how to tell him that our lives are about to change forever.

Tomorrow.

Today, I just need to keep breathing.