Page 40 of Risk

I blink, coming to, seeing the glaring face of the slightly bored but annoyed-looking barista.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

She sighs. “I asked what I could get you.”

“Oh yeah, um…” I give a quick scan of the board and see nothing appealing. “Do you have decaf?” I ask her.

She gives me a look that clearly says she thinks I’m dumb. “Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll have a black decaf Americano.” I don’t even like coffee without milk or cream, for fuck’s sake.

Maybe I should’ve gotten an iced tea. Or does tea have caffeine? God, I don’t even know. Why am I so clueless about this stuff?!

Maybe because I didn’t expect to need to know this type of thing at this point in my life.

“That all?”

“A…” Shit, I was going to order my usual lemon muffin, but I literally have no idea if lemon is okay to have. I mean, I can’t see why it wouldn’t be.

I lean my head back, staring at the food in the glass cabinet, my eyes landing on a croissant. That’s just bread. That’s not going to hurt the baby, surely.

“Ma’am? Anything else?”

Christ, this chick is impatient.

I give her a look of displeasure, which is so unlike me. I’m usually nice to everyone. Even dickheads.

“I’ll take a croissant as well, please.”

Ugh, why did I use my manners with such a rude woman? She doesn’t deserve politeness. But it’s so ingrained in me that I can’t frigging help it.

“Staying in or to go?” she barks.

I frown. “To go.” No manners used that time. I give myself a mental high five. Which is kind of lame if you think about it, but whatever.

I pay for my coffee and croissant, which she puts in a paper bag and holds out to me in what can only be described as an impatient manner. Can an arm be impatient? Well, whatever. Hers is.

Clutching the paper bag, I go stand in the area to wait for my coffee. Normally, I’d get my phone out and browse social media or watch TikToks, but I don’t this time. I find myself people-watching.

Mainly watching the woman who’s seated in the corner. She has a small child in her lap, who she’s feeding what looks to be a bran muffin.

I feel this tug deep inside of me.

If I decide to have this baby—my and Kaden’s baby—then that will be me one day.

Actually, no, that won’t be me because a guy—I’m assuming the baby’s father—has just sat down next to her, and the child is now clambering out of the mom’s lap and into the father’s. And if I do have this baby, then there’ll be no dad in my picture like that because I’ll be doing it alone.

“Missy,” I hear being called from the counter.

I walk over and pick up my decaf Americano.

I take one last glance at the mother with her young child, and then I push out the door and head back to class.

It’s when I’m seated, waiting for the lecture to start, unable to stop thinking about that woman and her child and replacing her in the image with myself, that I realize I know someone I can talk to about this. Someone who went through pretty much the same thing that I’m going through right now. Found herself alone and pregnant when still at college.

I could talk through how I’m feeling to her and get her perspective on things.

It’s just…I’m not sure if I can. Because, well, you see…

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