Page 54 of My Brother's Billionaire Best Friends
“Yes.”
“Even though I’m almost asleep?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Especially then.”
They do it, grumbling. I follow them to their room, tucking Levi in first. He grins as I adjust the shark plushie next to his pillow. “You peed again.”
I blink. “What?”
“You went to the bathroom again. That’s like…four times since we got home.”
“Are you keeping count?”
“That’s a lot.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.” But then a memory clicks into place, and I freeze. The air in the room suddenly feels too still. My chest tightens.
The last time I had to pee this often was when I was pregnant with them.
My whole body goes numb, but I’m a mom, so I pretend to be fine. I move to tuck Lyra in, brushing her hair away from her forehead, but I’m not fully present anymore. My brain’s spinning. Clicking through memories like a Rolodex that won’t stop.
Now, I’m doing the math.
I kiss them both goodnight. I dim the light in the hallway. I pour myself a glass of water and stare at it like it might have answers. Then I go into the linen closet.
At the very back of the shelf—wedged between old baby towels and a dusty heating pad—I find the box. An old pregnancy test. One I kept for no good reason. Probably expired. Probably unreliable.
But I can’t help it.
I take it to the bathroom. I stare at it. I unwrap it with fingers that won’t stop shaking. And I pee. The line starts to appear before I’ve even set it on the counter.
It’s faint. But it’s there.
I sit on the edge of the tub, wrapped in a towel, staring at it like it’s a magic trick I can undo if I just blink hard enough. This can’t be happening. I’m on the pill now. I never miss a dose. I’m careful. I’malwayscareful.
But that line doesn’t lie.
I check the box. Expired six months ago. Okay. That’s something. That’s a reason to doubt. But still—something gnaws at me. I’m not tired because of the strategy retreat. I’m tired because my body is doing something it hasn’t done in six years.
And I’ve been peeing like a leaky faucet.
I put the test in the trash, bury it under tissues like it might contaminate the air if someone else sees it, and pace the bathroom for half an hour. I check the clock. It’s 11:42 p.m. Too late to do anything tonight.
I won’t sleep. I already know it. That’s fine. I’ll manage. But in the morning, I’ll buy a new test. A fresh one. One I can believe.
I was right. I don’t sleep. Instead, I lie in bed with the sheets twisted around my legs, one hand over my stomach, staring at the ceiling like answers might be carved into the plaster.
They’re not.
My phone says 1:23 a.m., then 3:08, then 4:57. I drift in and out, never deep enough to escape the hum in my chest, the constant math running in loops behind my eyes. How far along? When would it have happened? Which one of them?—?
I sit up before the alarm goes off, slipping out of bed as quietly as I can. The kids are still asleep, soft little lumps under fleece blankets, their faces relaxed in ways I’ve forgotten how to be.
I get dressed on autopilot. Jeans. A flowy top that doesn’t hug. A cardigan, even though it’s not cold. I pull my hair back, but it won’t cooperate. Everything about me feels like it’s slightly off—misaligned, one click to the left of normal.
By 6:15, I’ve dropped the kids off with my mom again. I mutter something about needing to be in early. She eyes me like she knows I’m lying but doesn’t push. “Text me if you’re late,” she says as I back out of the driveway.
If I’m late? Geez. I really wish she’d chosen better wording. “Thanks, Mom.”
