Fuck it.
She hit call.
The line rang. And rang.
And went straight to voicemail.
Her stomach dropped.
She tried again. Same thing.
And that’s when it hit her—the silence.
She pressed the phone to her chest like it might steady her heartbeat. But it didn’t. Her pulse galloped.
Her body moved before her brain caught up—feet dragging toward the kitchen, like maybe he’d be there. Like maybe he’d show up with that crooked smirk and a dumb excuse and she’d be so fucking relieved she wouldn’t know whether to kiss him or scream.
She made a bedtime tea, not because she wanted it, but because it gave her hands something to do. Something to hold. Something that didn’t feel like breaking.
Shower. Tea. Bed. That was the plan. Go through the motions. Take care of yourself.
In the bathroom, the water steamed around her, warm and cozy. She stood under the spray, head bowed, fingers splayed over her belly.
Eight weeks.
Still barely a bump. Just enough to make her jeans tight, just enough to make her wake up sick, just enough to make everything feel heavier.
She stepped out, dried off, pulled on pajamas with hands that trembled more than she wanted to admit.
In the mirror, she caught her own reflection and paused.
Lifted her shirt. Just enough to see.
The curve was subtle. Barely there. But she saw it. Felt it. Knew what it meant.
This wasn’t a maybe. This wasn’t a dream.
She was pregnant. Alone. In love with a man she couldn’t trust. Again.
And God help her—she still wanted to believe in him.
Hayley’s hand splayed across the curve of her belly. Her eyes closed.
Her voice came out quiet, rough.
“Please be okay.”
She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the baby. Or to Jesse. Or to herself.
Then she turned off the light and crawled into bed, pulling the baby book off the nightstand.
Flipping through pages. Trying to absorb information.
The baby book was open in her lap, but she hadn’t read a single word.
She blinked at the page, barely seeing it.
Week 8. Raspberry-sized. Heartbeat at 150 to 170 bpm.