Page 55 of The Final Faceoff
“You two have a great night,” I chirp, backing away. “Enjoy your—” I wave a hand toward their untouched cocktails. “Yeah, okay. Bye.”
Then I turn and bolt. I make it out of the restaurant, past the hostess stand, through the front doors, and?—
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
My stomach revolts, and I barely have time to lunge for the nearest trash can before everything I’ve eaten today decides to make an encore appearance.
Awesome. Fantastic. Just outstanding work all around.
I brace a hand against the cold metal, my forehead pressed to my sleeve, willing the world to stop spinning. My face is on fire, my pulse a drumline in my ears, and I don’t know if this is morning sickness, sheer humiliation, or the universe punishing me for my life choices.
Probably all three.
A few people pass by, giving me a generous radius like I’m a stray dog they’re afraid might bite. One guy in a suit slows, eyes full of concern, before wisely choosing self-preservation and moving along.
I fumble in my bag, my fingers barely functioning as I wrestle the cap off my travel-sized mouthwash. The second it’s open, I take a swig, swish with the intensity of someone trying to rinse away their sins, and spit into the bin. The burn is better than the alternative, but it does nothing to scrub away the mortification sinking into my skin.
I exhale through my nose, press my lips together, and walk. Anywhere. Nowhere. Just away.
By the time I stop, I’m in Central Park.
The air is crisp, biting against my overheated skin, the kind of night that should feel refreshing. A couple strolls past, their hands laced together, and a jogger breathes steadily as his shoes slap against the pavement. In the distance, someone plays a violin for tips, the notes hauntingly beautiful.
It’s a moment that should feel peaceful, but it doesn’t. My brain is doing cartwheels.
What now?
That was definitely not the guy. Was his name Marcus? Was it even an M name? No wonder the hotel disregarded my call when I tried to get his information. I was out here throwing darts in the dark, hoping one would land.
And now?
Now, I have no idea who my baby’s father is. The thought sinks into my stomach, twisting hard. I find a bench, drop onto it, and pull out my phone. There’s only one person I know will pick up.
Hailey: Well. It’s official. Marcus is NOT the father. I don’t even think I remember his name.
The response is instant.
Leif: Are we celebrating or panicking?
I rub a hand over my face.
Hailey: I don’t know.
Another text appears before I can blink,Where are you?
Hailey: Central Park. The bench near the weird statue that looks like an old-timey librarian.
Leif: Stay there. Don’t get kidnapped.
I huff a laugh, dropping my phone into my lap. But then, out of nowhere, something inside me unravels.
My baby doesn’t have a father. I spent so much time trying to find him, trying to confirm what I already suspected, that I never considered what it would mean if I was wrong. And I was so wrong.
Now, it’s just me.
Me.
