Page 34 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)
Chapter thirty-four
MAYA
I ’m barely touching my salad.
We’re seated at one of the patio tables outside The Juniper Café, a little corner bistro tucked away on a quiet side-street. The lunch crowd is thinning out, the hum of conversation softening around us.
The sun filters through the striped awning overhead, casting warm slants of light across the table and onto my mostly untouched plate. The iced tea beside me has started to sweat, condensation pooling around the base, untouched.
Danielle’s halfway through her sandwich—grilled chicken on sourdough, no tomato, extra pesto.
As she eats, she watches me with an unnervingly perceptive stare.
We’ve talked about her wedding, her honeymoon, and how married life is treating her, but now the conversation has stalled and that stare sees right through my carefully pasted-on smile.
“You okay?” she asks, casually setting her fork down and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve been weirdly quiet since we sat down. And you’ve picked all the cucumber out of your salad, which, by the way, is a crime.”
I try to laugh. It comes out dry and papery, not even close to convincing. “I’m fine. Just… tired, I guess.”
Her eyes narrow, not in judgment, but in that slow, calm way of someone putting the puzzle pieces together. “You don’t look fine.”
I shrug, forcing my fork to stab at a cherry tomato that somehow looks too round, too red. “It’s been a crazy few weeks.”
Danielle leans forward slightly, arms resting on the table, her voice quieter now, softer. “Maya.”
That’s all it takes.
My whole face crumples. Not enough to cry—not yet—but enough to stop pretending. I look away, blinking against the heat gathering in my eyes.
“I’ve just been feeling… off. I don’t know. Dizzy sometimes. Nauseous in the mornings. Tired all the time. Like bone-deep tired.”
She blinks once. Then again.
Then, like it clicks all at once, her lips part and she leans back in her chair. “Wait. That sounds exactly like what I went through right before I found out I was pregnant.”
I let out a sharp, startled laugh—one of those nope, abort mission laughs that sounds more like panic than humor. “Danielle…”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Maya… could you be pregnant?”
The question hits me like a slap. All the air seems to whoosh out of my lungs at once.
My fork slips from my fingers and lands on the plate with a clatter, echoing too loudly for the calm setting.
“Wh—no.” I shake my head, hand fluttering through the air like I can wave the thought away. “No way. I mean… I don’t think so. I can’t be. Right?”
But even as the words fall from my mouth, my stomach churns.
Because my brain is already rewinding. Fast. Sharp.
The nausea that came out of nowhere a few days ago. The crying over a commercial for dog food. The soreness in my chest I brushed off as PMS—except my period never showed. The fatigue. The mood swings.
The way I fell asleep on the couch during movie night with Ethan’s hand in mine and woke up two hours later feeling like I hadn’t slept in days.
Danielle’s watching me, not saying a word now. Just sitting back, calm and steady. The kind of calm that says she’s already done this math. That she’s letting me catch up.
“You should take a test,” she says finally, her voice firm.
I shake my head again, but it’s less of a denial now and more of a how the hell did this happen gesture. “Danielle, I… I can’t even begin to think about what that would mean.”
Her expression softens. “I know, but don’t freak out before you know, okay?”
I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. My heart is pounding in my chest like it’s trying to outrun the possibility.
“I can’t be,” I whisper before I even realize I’m saying it.
Danielle frowns. “Maya…”
“No, seriously. A baby?” My voice breaks. “It’ll blow everything up.”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand, squeezing gently. “You don’t know that.”
I shake my head, eyes stinging. “Yeah. I do.”
She lets that sit for a minute before she says, gently, “Just take the test. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
I nod, but my stomach is already doing flips and my fingers are clammy.
Because even though I haven’t taken the test yet, even though I haven’t seen the result, I already know.
Deep down, I already know.
***
The upstairs bathroom is small—barely wide enough for the pedestal sink and the claw-foot tub I keep meaning to reglaze. Pale sea-glass tiles line the floor; they’re cool against my bare feet and somehow make me feel even shakier.
A single skylight lets in the late-afternoon sun, turning the air gold and dust-soft. The lavender candle I lit for “ambience” has burned low, scenting everything with a sweetness that suddenly feels cloying.
I’ve never hated silence so much in my life.
My footsteps echo off the subway-tiled walls as I pace, back and forth, back and forth, like a wind-up toy that’s lost its key.
Each time I pass the marble-topped counter, the pregnancy test seems to stare back at me—pink plastic, impossible—like a tiny time bomb just waiting to go off.
The open foil wrapper lies next to it, crumpled. A half-empty glass of water sweats beside the faucet.
“Stress,” I mutter, rubbing my arms. “It’s stress.
Just stress. Or bad Pad Thai. Right—the shrimp tasted weird.
Or hormones. Or the fact that I’m juggling three incredible, complicated men and pretending I’m not scared out of my mind every second.
” My reflection flickers in the mirror: wide eyes, blotchy cheeks, hair falling out of its clip.
I reach for my phone on the windowsill, nearly drop it with my shaking hands, and jab the screen. No new messages from Ethan, Liam, or Jake. Part relief, part disappointment.
The timer I set because I couldn’t trust myself to watch the clock finally beeps—shrill, urgent—cutting the air in half.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, okay, okay.”
I turn. One step. Two. My heartbeat is louder than the timer.
The test stares up at me: two red lines, stark and unblinking.
Positive.
A sound escapes my throat—half gasp, half laugh, wholly stunned. The breath rushes out of me like I’ve been punched. My knees buckle, and I clutch the edge of the sink to stay upright.
The lavender candle flickers wildly in my peripheral vision as if it, too, knows this is big.
Pregnant.
The word echoes around the tiled room, ricocheting off the porcelain, bouncing inside my skull.
I press a trembling hand to my stomach. Nothing to feel, not yet, but my palm tingles, imagining that tiny, unseen spark of life.
“I’m pregnant,” I say, voice cracking. “Pregnant.” Saying it aloud makes it solid and undeniable.
Tears flood my eyes—shock first, icy and bright, then fear, then awe so fierce it’s almost painful, and then a tender bloom of joy that scares me even more. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the cool tile, knees drawn up, heels of my palms pressed to my temples.
How am I supposed to tell them? I picture Ethan’s steady eyes widening, Liam going stone-silent while his brain spins, and Jake blurting out a joke he doesn’t really feel.
What if this breaks us?
Then again, what if it doesn’t? What if this is something they’re excited about? What if it’s just another step in building our unconventional family?
A tiny, terrified smile tugs at my lips even as tears keep sliding down.
I drag in a shaky breath, wipe my cheeks, lift my head. The mirror shows a girl who’s frightened, yes, but also fierce. A girl who’s carried impossible feelings and hasn’t crumbled yet.
“Okay,” I whisper to my reflection. “One step at a time.”
Tell them. Tonight. No more hiding.
I blow out the lavender candle, rinse my face with cool water, and slip the test into a small velvet pouch left over from some jewelry Ethan bought me. Then I stand, legs shaky but holding, and open the bathroom door.