Page 47 of Filthy Rich Daddies
She nods, retrieving the laptop from her tote. “We pull one you can control. Money. You think you can’t finish school with a baby. That’s false. There are single-parent scholarships, childcare grants, even postpartum dorm units.”
I frown. “Postpartum dorm units? That’s…unexpected.”
“Peach State launched a pilot last year.” She types fast, screen glow painting her determined features. “Also, national funds—Heather Lee Foundation, Raise the Future Fellowship. Eligibility doesn’t vanish in senior year.”
I scoot closer, scanning the scholarship list. Requirements: maintain 3.0 GPA (check), letter of recommendation, proof of pregnancy, essay on resilience. Essay I can handle—I spent my childhood writing scientific diaries. Easy enough.
Hope prickles—tentative, like seedlings after a storm. I glance at Arabella. “Even if I could afford tuition, daycare costs?—”
“Campus co-op daycare is half price for student parents. And I babysit for free.” She lifts her hand, nails glittering. “Don’t argue.”
Emotion surges again, less freight train, more warm tide. “Why are you so good to me?”
She shrugs. “You’re my ride-or-die. Plus, I need godmother credentials for LinkedIn.”
I laugh through a sniffle and whisper, “I could still chase a master’s.”
She nods. “With a tiny lab assistant in tow.”
Hope, fragile and tiny, blooms. But then guilt creeps in—the guys. I fled. They deserve a voice too. But no decision-making power over my body. “I’m not sure what to do about the guys.”
Arabella switches gears. “They weirdly care, you know. None of my sugar daddies ever flew cross-continent for a pregnancyscare. Not that I’ve had one, but you know what I mean. They like you.”
“I know.” I swallow. “That’s what scares me the most. It feels…real.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “Real isn’t the enemy, babe. How do you feel about them?”
My heart swells at the thought. But, “It’s just hormones, I think.”
“You said you had a good weekend with them before the hormones. Would it be so bad to maybe date your baby’s daddies?”
I snort at the crassness, but also, I consider texting them. Maybe later tonight after a nap. “I need sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“On it.” Arabella tucks me under my comforter, sets the plushie to guard my bruised shin. She dims the desk lamp, opens the window for a midday breeze, and hums an off-key lullaby. My eyes shutter.
Half-asleep, I mumble, “You think I’ll be a good mom?”
Arabella snorts. “Better than any I know.”
It’s the last thing I hear before sleep claims me. I wake at dusk. The dorm glows amber. Arabella sits desk-side reading an obstetric best-practice blog. My phone blinks with new messages.
“Wakey wakey. Time to call?” she asks.
“Maybe next lifetime. I need to think.”
“You got it. How about dinner?”
“Yes, please.”
I hit a shower, and Arabella returns with takeout Thai. Over noodles, we draft a timeline. Doctor appointment Monday, scholarship essays over the last of holiday break, conversation with parents after that, maybe call the guys eventually.
Baby decision? Not today.
Arabella toasts a spring roll. “To reroutes.”
I clink the water bottle. “To changes.”
Outside the window, campus lights flicker on. I’m still scared. But now fear stands beside possibility, and possibility holds the promise of little hands in lab coat pockets.
