Page 15 of The Final Faceoff
Of course I am. This is the plot twist I did not see coming. It wasn’t in the script of my life. The one I try to write with a few rules, like have fun, never settle, stay away from your family as much as possible.
It’s worked so far . . . until now.
This, my life, isn’t what I do. Nope. I try to pay no attention to it because it could get boring. I always document history—the past. Stuff that’s already happened, already wrapped up in a neat little bow of tragedy or triumph. Or, if I’m covering a current crisis, my job is to observe, analyze, and highlight solutions—how people can help, how I can help, while keeping a professional distance.
I do not becomethedisaster.
And yet, here we are.
I set the test down next to the others—four little sticks of doom, lined up like they’re part of some coordinated attack on my sanity. I stare at them, waiting for one—just one—to blink at me and say,Just kidding.
They don’t.
“How?” I groan, dragging both hands down my face like I’m trying to erase the last five minutes from existence. Then, for good measure, I cover my entire face with my palms and mumble through my fingers, “How?”
I peek through my fingers, shake my head, then dramatically flop backward. “No, seriously. How? Am I cursed? The evil eye documentary has something to do with this? Is there some cosmic being using my life as their personal reality show?” I let out a long, suffering sigh. “If so, I’d really appreciate a script change.”
Listen, this shouldn’t happen to me. I’ve been careful. Always. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of dodging anything that might tie me down—roots, responsibilities, attachments. I had a plan—a really good plan.
Until I’m thirty-five, I won’t even think about children, being tied down to a man, or a white picket fence in that plan. Nope, I don’t need any of that right now.
So . . . what now?
I grab my phone, totally calm, completely composed, definitely not on the verge of a full-blown spiral. My hands? Not shaking. Not even a little.
The first name in my favorites is Leif. My thumb hovers over it. I almost tap it.
Almost.
And then I don’t, because what the hell am I supposed to say?
Hey, Leify, how’s life? All good? Guess what? I walked away with a freaking souvenir.
From Greece, With Love.
Yeah. No. Not doing that. Also I’ve never called him Leify, why would I start now?
Aspen? Also a hard pass. She’s already off scouting another location in Belize, and the last time we spoke, she cheerfully informed me that this time, I wouldn’t get invited. Her words. Apparently, my too-serious, doom-and-gloom approach doesn’t exactly vibe with this come-visit-this-paradise documentary. Plus, she doesn’t have the budget to include one more person on it.
Hence, I’m still in Greece, trying to justify my extended stay as research—which is mostly me staring at the Mediterranean and hoping inspiration strikes.
So, back to the real crisis at hand: Nomadic documentary filmmaker finds herself unexpectedly expecting. A plot twist for the ages. And now what? Do I pitch a documentary about my own life derailing in real-time?
I clear my throat and slip into my best narrator voice—the kind they use for serious, award-winning documentaries. “Here, we witness the unsuspecting filmmaker in her natural habitat, staring into the abyss of responsibility. Notice the vacant expression, the slow blink—classic indicators of existential dread.”
I glance at the four tests lined up like a jury and sigh. “Despite overwhelming evidence, the subject remains skeptical, holding out hope for a clerical error.”
Since this is officially a shit-show and there’s nothing I can do on this side of the world, I do what any logical, well-adjusted, totally fine person would do.
I book a flight back to New York.
The moment I hit confirm, a very small, very panicked part of me wants to unconfirm immediately. Instead, I shove my phone onto my hoodie, rip open my suitcase, and start throwing things inside like I have any clue what I’m doing. It’s time to purge because I can’t take everything with me, and also I don’t have time to ship stuff like I usually do during my trips.
Underwear? Obviously.
Shoes? Probably a good idea.
Laptop? I should work. Work is good.
