Chapter 2

“Where’d you disappear to Friday night?” Marla asked, leaning over my cubicle wall with her third espresso.

“Home. Migraine.” I didn’t look up from my screen.

“Uh-huh.” She waggled her brows. “Because someone said they saw you dancing with Andrew Drake. And by dancing, I mean… hands. Bodies. Prolonged eye contact.”

I clicked aggressively into the zoning variance spreadsheet. “That someone needs glasses.”

Across the atrium, Andrew stood by the espresso bar, chatting with two interns. He kissed one on the hand. The other giggled like it was a Jane Austen adaptation. I hated how his sleeves were rolled perfectly. I hated how I noticed.

I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have a column to design?”

Marla snorted. “Fine, fine. But if he proposes during the structural review meeting, I’m calling dibs on your office.”

She disappeared just as fast. I exhaled and leaned back, suddenly dizzy. Lines on the screen swam. My stomach turned.

I shut my laptop and stood.

I told myself it was probably nothing—too many late nights and lattes, nothing a weekend of sleep couldn’t fix.

One month later, the dizziness hadn’t eased; it had multiplied, pinwheeling every time I stood.

At the corner bodega, I bought ginger ale, saltines, and—because I was apparently starring in a teen drama—three pregnancy tests. I told myself it was just stress. Hormones. Delayed cycle. Work deadlines. Not tequila and cedar and Andrew’s hand on my waist as I sang Bon Jovi like a drunk idiot.

Back home, I paced the bathroom like it might change the results. The test strip lay on the counter like a loaded weapon.

Three minutes.

I turned on the fan. I counted ceiling tiles. I avoided looking.

I looked.

One line. Faint second.

No.

I tried the second test.

Pink.

Third test.

Double lines.

I sat on the floor, tile cold against my spine, staring at the evidence lined up like little tombstones of sanity.

Somewhere in my apartment, my phone buzzed.

A text from Claire:

**“Did you survive Friday? Also, what was up with you and Andrew? ”**

I turned the screen face-down.

At work tomorrow, people would still talk about karaoke. About interns and cronuts. About office romances and hallway whispers.

But I would know something they didn’t.

I pressed a palm to my stomach. Nothing. Just silence.

Just the quietest, scariest maybe of my life.