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Jemma's standing in the doorway as I lose everything I ate today down the drain. "Oh, Tilly..." Her voice is a mix of worry and sympathy.
Once my stomach's empty, I rinse my face with cold water, trying not to focus on the smell of vomit in the air. "Yeah, must've caught a stomach bug."
"No, honey. You're pregnant." I burst out laughing at her conclusion. She arches an eyebrow. "Laugh all you want, but I have an eye for these things."
"Uh, not to be all scientific, but don't you need to have sex to get pregnant?"
"So, you're a virgin then?"
"No, but it's been forever." Even as I say it, I’m doing the calculations in my head.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
I’ve been here for five weeks and haven’t had a visit from the friendly neighborhood red devil. Stress maybe? But just as I think it, I remember something else. No protection that last time with Tommy. Oh, hell. No. Nope. No way. I feel all the blood leave my face and let myself slide to the floor. I can’t focus on anything in the tiny, but very clean, bathroom. My mind has become a blank canvas as panic consumes me.
Jemma steps inside and stares down at me. "Alright. Forget drinks with Kevin. We're heading to the drugstore."
Thirty minutes later, I'm staring at the positive test stick, my mind numb with shock, Jemma's arm around my shoulder. "It'll be okay, Tilly. There are places you can go until you're on your feet."
I stand up, the reality of the situation crashing down. "No, Jemma. It won't be okay. I'm twenty-eight, with no driver's license, no car, no real job, and definitely no place to raise a kid."
"It's not ideal," she mutters, and the initial shock gives way to hysteria.
"And no dad? How the hell am I supposed to do this?!" I ask. The way she recoils from me with her jaw dropped, I must be foaming at the mouth.
Jemma begins, "Well, I hate to be the one to say it, but you could—"
I cut her off, my face losing whatever color it had left. "No, I couldn't!" The idea of what she’s suggesting, to do that to Tommy’s baby, it makes me sicker than when I was throwing up a half hour ago. It is not an option for me.
She raises her hands in surrender. "Okay, no judgment if you change your mind, but I won't bring it up again. Look, you have a job, sort of, and a roof over your head. That's a start."
I put both hands on my face and groan. Jemma's trying to be supportive, but all I want in that moment is to be alone with my thoughts. She sighs and shakes me a little bit. "And you know, there are places you can go—"
"Jemma, I really just want to watch TV and fall asleep." She's never given up trying to get me to use the resources she knows about. Maybe it's pride, but I just can't. I left of my own accord, I can work, and I'm not helpless. Those places, they are for people without any other option.
“Okay, honey.” Getting up, she gives me another sympathetic look. "You'll be okay? I mean, mentally? I can stay if you want."
"Yeah, I just need to cry a bit and try to sleep," I assure her, forcing a smile despite the storm inside me.
"Alright then. Call me if that changes," she says, closing the door behind her.
The moment Jemma leaves, I grab my phone. Instead of calling Sam as I initially planned, I open my social media app. I made a fake profile and I'm not friends with Sam on it, but her profile is visible to the public. Probably something she did just so I could see her. I navigate to a specific photo that's been etched in my mind.
It's Sam in the hospital, cradling her newborn son, with Tommy sitting beside her, kissing her cheek, a beam of happiness across his face. I swipe to the next photo—Tommy holding the baby, his smile even wider, the joy unmistakable. The caption beneath reads 'Thomas Joshua,' including his weight and birthdate.
He looks happy. Happy without me. Without us. Because there is an us now. Me and his baby. The phone suddenly feels like a thousand pounds, and it must be on fire because it’s burning in my hand. Now trembling, I chuck the phone across the room and yell out a loud, “Fuck!”
It’s bad enough I missed the birth of TJ. All I got was the social media version. The one that all her old high school friends and great aunts got. People that barely give two shits about her. I didn’t get to be there to witness her lose her shit on Greg when he ate a burger in the room while she was bent in half with intense contractions. Or when she threw her water bottle at the doctor for telling her she wasn’t even remotely close to the end of the magical childbirth experience. Thirty-three hours of labor. God, she’s a fucking hero.
I got the stories. I got the laughter afterward. And I got the guilt. Yes, my best friend, the sweetest little thing on the planet, is now mad at me. “You should have been here, Tilly," she said at the end of the phone call. I can still feel the deep cut that single sentence made. Because it’s fucking true and its torture. But Tommy was there. He held that little bundle of joy. Fuck, she named the kid after him.
And here I am, alone, pining for him. That last time we were together, the thought of consequences like this had been so far from my mind. I'd been on the pill, but the chaos of finding my apartment destroyed, going to the tournament, then Tahoe must have led me to miss a few doses. Thankfully, I hadn't taken any pills since I left, and I haven't been drinking much—just a couple of beers every so often. I hope that won't affect the baby.
The baby. Could it be a girl? Or a boy? Whatever it is, it’s a little piece of Tommy that's mine. A tiny version of him that I get to take care of; forever. Will the baby have his dirty blonde hair? That smirk Tommy gets on a little boy? Lord, that would be damn cute. And if it is a girl? God, I can only imagine. Teaching her to surf, or how to do a French braid. And all of a sudden, it doesn't seem as scary.
