Page 51 of Coronation
You’re not a person anymore, you’re the entertainment for the day, and fighting back only makes it worse.
The only silver lining here—and it’s a pretty thin one—is that at least I know it’s only a matter of time before it gets a whole lot worse.
Davina, the woman who got me into this mess to begin with, seems to agree.
“Oh, shit.” She turns the white, plastic stick upside down, as if the aggressively clear plus sign is going to change form if she looks at it from a different angle.
It doesn’t. I tried.
“Yeah.” I watch my friend set the test down on the table,obviously doing her best not to look horrified.Don’t freak out, might as well be scrolling across her eyeballs like a teleprompter.
Which is good, considering I’m horrified enough for both of us. Actually, am I? Staring at the kitchen wall, I examine my own feelings and find myself curiously absent of any at all.
Shock.
This is shock.
Which, I guess, is to be expected. Considering.
Davina collapses into the chair across from mine, her eyes round. “So, that would mean it’s…” She trails off, glancing toward the local newspaper she brought with her when she came knocking on my door, only to find me teary-eyed and clutching a positive pregnancy test.
Positive.
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant, and because King Benedict the Worst couldn’t keep his eyeballs to himself, the entire world will know—or at least suspect—exactly who the father is.
If I was famous before, it seems that one ill-timed photograph has brought my notoriety to unprecedented levels. This is so much bigger than anything I’ve ever had to face before, and I don’t know what to do.
Even if I were to deny it, my being pregnant and giving birth eight months after this story—possibly to a scowling, dark-eyed baby—wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed. Every single person in the world is going to think I got knocked up by the King of Stelland,includingthe King of Stelland, and they’ll be right.
Which means I’ll need to tell him.
Nope. I can’t think about that right now. If I’d had even an inkling this was coming, if I’d thought there was an actual chance I could be pregnant, maybe I would have been a littlemore prepared to get that positive test. I wasn’t, though. Not even a little.
Last night, I went to bed, attempting to convince myself it was all a horrible nightmare. Then—because being blindsided once wasn’t enough for a single twenty-four-hour period—I woke up, checked my phone, and was smacked by another unwelcome surprise, courtesy of the same man.
Damnit, Ben.
“Are you going to keep it?” Davina asks tentatively, a worried crease between her eyebrows as she gives up on waiting for me to break the silence.
All the air seems to go out of me, as yet another worry is added to my rapidly mounting list. It’s a valid question, and honestly, probably the most responsible solution to the problem at hand. I’m not even a little bit prepared for motherhood, and when I pictured myself—eventually—starting a family, I was happily married with an adoring, dutiful husband at my side.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, my voice hollow. More than anything, I just want to crawl back into bed and sleep until I can wake up without having to clean up this epic, disastrous mess thatI didn’t even make.
Davina’s expression softens, offering me an encouraging smile. “You’d be an awesome mom if that’s what you wanted to do. I mean it, Z. You’d be taking that kid to baby yoga and getting all intense about food brands and stuff. He or she would be lucky to have you.”
My vision blurs with tears, and I have to press my lips together to keep myself from sobbing out loud. What she’s saying is sweet, but considering the choices I’ve been making lately, I really might not be fit for the job.
On the table before me, my phone vibrates, and I barely glance at the name on the caller ID—my father’s this time—before I silence it. I don’t have any answers for him, or anyoneelse, for that matter. What do they even want from me? I didn’t ask for any of this, and I have enough to freaking deal with, without—It starts vibrating again.
Letting out a frustrated little shriek, I snatch the device up, hitting accept without even checking to see who is on the other line.
“What?”I snarl, warring with the impulse to hurl the stupid thing across the room. “How can I,the person going through some shit, help you,the person not going through some shit?”
At the kitchen table, Davina watches me with round eyes, obviously not used to me acting like a full-blown lunatic.
