Page 22 of The Final Faceoff
Then there are my amazing grandparents, who unfortunately are too old, too judgmental, and would probably tell me this is my penance for not settling down like a nice woman.
And then there’s Leif.
My stomach twists. No. I won’t drag him into this.
I’ve spent my entire life being independent, untethered, the person who fixes things herself. That doesn’t change now.
I take a slow breath, keeping my hands still in my lap, every limb locked down like I’m bracing for turbulence. The doctor watches me carefully, waiting for some kind of reaction. I could freak out. I could cry.
Instead, I nod like she just told me my car needs an oil change.
“Okay,” I say, my voice shockingly even. “So, what happens next?”
She hesitates, then launches into another explanation—options, appointments, vitamins, things I need to consider.
This time, I listen. Sort of. Definitely better than earlier.
But my mind is already miles away, sprinting toward a reality I never planned for.
I leave the doctor’s office feeling like my whole world just tilted slightly to the left.
It’s drizzling outside, a misty kind of rain that clings to my skin, the kind that isn’t quite enough to pull out an umbrella but just enough to be annoying. I step onto the sidewalk, watching cabs blur past, people moving in every direction like nothing has changed.
And then, because there is literally nothing else I can do right now, I sit down on a bench, drop my face into my hands, and let myself breathe.
A baby.
An actual human being that will depend on me for survival.
I press my palms into my eyes. This is impossible.
Because what kind of mother would I even be?
My life is a never-ending itinerary. Flights, hotels, interviews, cameras, countries that feel familiar for a moment before I leave them behind. I love my life. I chose my life.
But a baby?
A baby doesn’t fit into a suitcase.
People walk past, umbrellas spinning, voices blending into the hum of the city. Normally, that sound makes me feel alive. Right now, it makes me feel . . . adrift.
I think about my dad. His disappointment, the way he’ll say,You messed up again,without even needing to actually say it. I think about the baby’s father. The fact that this isn’t some grand love story where I tell him and he suddenly transforms into the perfect co-parent. Well, if I ever find him.
I think about how much easier it would be if I could just call my mom. She would know what to say. Where to start and . . . I miss her a lot. But I have no one to share this with.
I could call Leif. He would answer. But this isn’t something I want to bring up yet. Not until I know exactly what I’m doing.
I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of rain and pavement and city life moving forward, regardless of my crisis.
What am I going to do?
It doesn’t matter right now.
I take the subway to the hotel, letting the movement lull me into a state of semi-functionality.
The train is crowded but quiet, filled with people who have places to be. I watch them—a mom rocking a toddler in her lap, an old man reading a book, a college student nodding off against the window.
And I wonder if any of them have ever felt this lost. Or if I’ll ever find myself, which I might have to do because this baby will need me.
