Page 166 of Sexting the Boss

I pause, eyes narrowing.

I didn’t mean to listen, but it’s not a name I expected. Nina.

As in,thatNina?

But no. That’s ridiculous. Nina is a common name. There are probably hundreds of Ninas in New York alone. Could be his sister. Could be a client. Could be anyone.

I shake my head. Before I think more about it, Ryan returns. “You sure you’re okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just…tired.”

His eyes search mine. “If you need anything. Seriously. You can talk to me.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. I really do. Ryan’s a good guy.

Too good to be caught up in my storm.

I wave goodbye and step into the hallway, riding the elevator down to the lobby.

By the time I’m home, I feel like I’ve been walking around with bricks in my chest all day. I kick off my shoes, collapse onto the couch, and stare at the ceiling until my phone buzzes.

Mom.

I hesitate. My thumb hovers over the green button. Then I press it.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, voice warm and scratchy like always, like the edge of a knitted blanket. “I was just thinking about you.”

That’s all it takes.

My throat clenches. My eyes sting. And suddenly, I’m crying. The kind of crying you hold in until it comes out messy and hiccupping.

“Oh, honey,” she says immediately. “What’s wrong?”

I wipe at my eyes, failing miserably. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”

“Sasha. Talk to me.”

I curl into myself on the couch, knees hugged to my chest, and try to answer, but the words come out choked and wet.

“Sweetheart?”

“I’m pregnant.”

There. It’s out.

And I swear the silence that follows is long enough to age me five years.

But then she exhales, and it’s not disappointment I hear but the opposite.

That quiet, reliable kindness she always has in emergencies, like the time Ben got his finger stuck in a juice box straw and we thought he’d lose circulation.

“Oh, honey…” she says. “Okay. Okay. Talk to me. Start from the beginning.”

“I found out a few days ago,” I whisper. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I kept thinking maybe if I ignored it, it’d just…go away.”

She doesn’t rush me. She waits.

“I was supposed to get a better job. Move you and Ben to the city. Fix everything,” I go on. “Instead I threw up in a Walgreens parking lot and cried at a bus ad for yogurt.”

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