Page 1 of One Secret

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The knock on the door is softly executed but, to me, it's like the crack of a high-caliber rifle ricocheting through my head.

Which might have something to do with the toilet bowl working as an echo chamber.

I glare at the traitorous porcelain.

'Darcy?' Lily-Anne calls through the door. 'You okay in there?'

Fucking spiffy-spectacular, to quote my old Major.

Wilkes always had a colorful way of combining the whimsical with the explicit. Which made now the perfect time to apply his particular brand of cussing.

A wondrous and goddamn frustrating miracle is, after all, the reason I'm crouched on my friend's bathroom floor.

'I'm fine!' I call back through the door, flushing the facilities but not moving from my knees. I brace my forehead against the rim of the toilet and try to get my shit together.

At first, I fail spectacularly. My adrenaline races and my fight-or-flight instincts start sniffing the air for danger. My mouth goes dry and my palms sweat. Images of baby clothes and little booties spark equal parts warm joy and icy terror. Bottles, pacifiers… The screaming and the feedings... The chaotic toddler years, the messy childhood, the angry puberty. The cost of shoes, school supplies, college tuition…

Then, amidst it all, appears a face. A male face, so beautiful yet so violent. With sharp planes, fine scars, and a stunning set of mismatched eyes in green and blue.

Cyrus.

He smiles.

It's the barest of smiles. His own particular brand of the expression. Only the furthest corner of his lips twists upwards. Like a sneer of amusement. The heat in his eyes, however, turns the smile appealing. Makes it very appealing. Alluring. Enticing...

It warms me through from my heart to my toes, swelling at every major junction along the way.

Until…

His expression shifts. As if in revelation, Cyrus's wide brow descends harshly and his eyes no longer shine with hot, sexual promise. They burn accusingly with betrayal. His upper lip curls in contempt and he looms enormous in my mind. Like a vulture ready to claw out my liver over the treachery of breaking our unspoken vows.

Birds of prey, after all, aren't meant to be house pets, chained by paternal responsibility.

'Oh God...' I whisper to myself, the white ceramic cool against my forehead.

Had this pregnancy been a choice, I couldn't have picked a worse candidate for the father. Nor worse timing.

I live in a box, I'm barely employed... Oh, and there's the little matter of never being able to go back to Sweden again…

I can feel myself spiraling. Bent over Lily-Anne's facilities like a wilting flower, I jerk myself out of the downhill mentality with such force that it throws me upright. Like a deepsea diver forcing themselves back above the surface, a few rays of clarity begin to shine through, and I'm suddenly annoyed at my own melodrama.

Determinedly, I try an old trick and imagine all of my tension as an angry black cloud in my lungs. I hold it. I let it swirl inside, building and thickening. I feed all of my fears and worries into it, allowing it to grow heavy…

I then exhale long and hard into the toilet bowl, hoping that even a little of my anxiety can go the way of my lunch: down Lily-Anne's plumbing.

It's not exactly a solution to my issues but it makes me feel a little better. When I get to my feet and quickly wash my face and hands, my stomach still feels tied up in knots and my brain too thick for my head, but I'm no longer shaking inside.

I snort to myself.

And the doctor wants me to keep my stress down.

Ha!

Luckily for me, stress is relative. And I've been through worse.

'Hey, Lil?' I ask, toweling off my fingers. 'Do you mind grabbing my bag?'

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