Page 51 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
I try to think about anything else. The upcoming game schedule. Whether the new rookie will finally learn to keep his mouth shut. If Mia’s cat will ever stop peeing in her shoes. I try to remember what it felt like to have a normal problem—a parking ticket, a flat tire, a bad date. I try to remember what it felt like to want anything.
Instead, all I get is the ghost of the tech’s voice, bright and chirpy:“Congrats, I guess.”It repeats, over and over, like an error message in the background of my brain.
I flex my toes, curling and uncurling until the sheets bunch up under my heels. There’s a buzzing in my ears, a low white noise, and for a second, I think I might pass out. Not a bad outcome. Maybe I’ll wake up to find it was all some elaborate prank, or maybe I’ll just wake up in the ER, and someone else can deal with the paperwork.
My stomach flips. Not hunger. Not even close.
I roll back onto my spine, fan my fingers over the skin just below my navel. There’s nothing to feel, not yet. It could stillbe a joke, or a tumor, or a bureaucratic error. I press harder, searching for any sign of movement, any proof that it’s not all in my head. The flesh gives under my hand, soft and yielding, as if to say:you’re not in charge here.
The riot in my head just won’t stop, so I make it to the kitchen at 1:08, if you believe my microwave clock, which gained three minutes during the last blackout and now refuses to be corrected. The fridge hums softly as I open it. Inside, it looks like someone who lives well most of the time. Glass containers stacked like puzzle pieces, grilled chicken in lemon and thyme, roasted vegetables sealed with wax paper, brown rice and sautéed kale portioned with surgical precision. There’s a quart of bone broth, an untouched wedge of Manchego, two ripe avocados resting on a folded dish towel, and three mason jars of chia pudding layered with pomegranate seeds and coconut yogurt I prepped last Sunday.
I lean on the door and scan the lineup like I’m reading a menu I forgot how to want. Nothing sounds wrong, but nothing sounds right either. I think about eating the chicken, then picture myself chewing and chewing and never swallowing. I try to imagine a spoonful of pudding, but the idea hits too cold, too slippery, too slow. My stomach curls up like it’s bracing for impact. I almost close the fridge.
Then it hits me.
Pickles.
Out of nowhere, wild and loud and absurd. Not the artisan kind, not half-sours from the fancy deli. I want the cheap ones. The kind in a plastic jar with a green lid. Crinkle-cut. Vinegar sharp and bright enough to make your teeth hurt. I want them straight from the fridge, standing barefoot on the tile, juice dripping down my wrist.
I dig through the lower shelf and find the jar hidden behind a container of roasted chickpeas and a bag of shreddedmozzarella. I don’t even remember buying them. I unscrew the lid and the smell nearly makes me cry. I spear one with my fingers, take a bite, and it hits every corner of my mouth like a lit match. I groan. Actually groan. The cold brine, the snap of the cucumber, the ridiculous satisfaction of it. It’s better than anything I’ve eaten in weeks.
Two pickles in, I grab a spoon and drink the juice. No hesitation. Just tip my head back and go.
It tastes like electricity.
I brace a hand against the counter, breathing through the sudden, inexplicable high of it. The hunger comes fast and wild. I think about toast slathered with cream cheese and layered with pickles. I think about pasta with lemon and dill and garlic. I think about ice cream and hot sauce and peanut butter and salt. My brain is short-circuiting with combinations I would have gagged at a week ago.
My stomach isn’t twisting now. It’s awake.
I set the jar down gently like it might explode, press a hand to my abdomen, and try to remember the last time food made me feel like this.
I can’t.
My phone rings, rattling across the countertop. I read the name:CASSIEin all-caps, the photo a drunken shot from Halloween three years ago, both of us in lab coats, holding up rubber rats. I don’t answer. She calls again, then again, and by the fourth time I cave.
“Sage!” Her voice is too bright for the hour, too bright for the universe. “You alive? I saw your text and assumed you were dead.”
“Not dead,” I say. My voice is gravel. “Just busy.”
She snorts. “Busy being a hermit? Busy ignoring your best friend’s perfectly good invitations to come stay for a weekend?”
I picture her in her apartment, feet up on the coffee table, toenails painted neon orange, hair in the same chaotic bun she’s worn since high school. “I’m working,” I say, which is sort of true.
As always, Cassidy reads between the lines. “You are not working. You are spiraling. There’s a difference. What’s going on? You sound like you’re about to confess to a murder.”
I close the fridge, lean against the counter, and let my head thunk back against the cabinet. “You know those things you think only happen to other people?”
A pause. “Did you get scammed again? Because if so, I have a great malware guy.”
“No. Not a scam. A…medical thing.”
She’s silent, for once, and I hear the gears turning through the static of the call. “Are you dying? If you say you’re dying, I’m driving over.”
“Not dying,” I say, then laugh, because it’s funny if you look at it from the right angle. “Just…multiplying.”
She processes this, then exhales. “Are you pregnant? Holy shit. Are you actually pregnant?”
I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. “Yeah. Surprise. And not just one. Three.”
