Page 17
I stare at my phone for a second, already suspicious. My birthday is in a few days. And even though I’ve made it very clear I’m not in the mood to celebrate, Mabel clearly has other plans.
“Rosie?”
I look up to see Jenna standing at my office door. “Boss wants to see you.”
“Did she say why?”
“Nope, just said to call you.”
I grab my phone, take a steadying breath, and head down the hall. You only get summoned to the boss’s office alone if you’ve done something wrong, and I know I haven’t done anything wrong. Or have I?
The blinds are half-closed, sunlight filtering through in thin golden lines that stretch across her desk.
She sits behind it, leaning back slightly in her chair, fingers steepled in front of her. Mid-forties, always impeccably dressed, today in a tailored cream blazer that somehow makes her look both elegant and intimidating.
There’s a reason everyone straightens up when she walks into a room.
“Rosie,” she says, gesturing for me to sit.
I do.
She studies me for a moment, then nods, like she’s confirming something to herself.
“You’ve been doing solid work,” she says. “And from what I’ve seen, you handle pressure better than most.”
She pauses.
“We’re opening a new branch in New Jersey,” she continues. “Smaller market, but growing fast. I need someone reliable to help set it up, oversee the first six months, train the team, and make sure everything runs smoothly from day one.”
She leans forward slightly now, her gaze locking onto mine.
“I was wondering if you’d like me to put down your name for the new role. Interested in relocating?”
My stomach does a slow, uncomfortable flip. Leave the city? Leave my friends and the life I’ve built here?
Before I can respond, she says, “Take some time. Think about it. Offer’s open for a week. Let me know what you think by the end of the week.”
Two days later, it’s my birthday morning, and instead of responding to all the happy birthday messages already popping into my phone from friends, I’m busy staring at the calendar on my phone, counting backward, then forward again. My period is late. Not a day or two, almost a week.
It’s barely past six, and Mabel is still in bed. I walk into our shared bathroom, take out one of the pregnancy tests she always has around.
I sit on the closed toilet lid and wait the full three minutes even though the line appears in less than two minutes.
Two pink lines.
Pregnant.
The stick trembles in my fingers. I set it on the counter like it might bite me, then press both palms to my mouth to keep the sound inside.
Andrei is the only man I’ve been with in the last six months. The only man since Luke. There is no question.
But then, we used protection. Isn’t a condom supposed to prevent things like this? So how can I be pregnant?
My heart starts to pound as I unlock my phone, and type on Google: Can you get pregnant if you use a condom?
I tap the first article and scan the bold line at the top: Condoms are only 98% effective.
I stare at the words, my stomach dropping. Well, looks like I fell into the 2%.
