Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
When an older woman in an electric-blue sweater gets in the way of the bathroom door just as my vomit threatens, I have to shove her out of the way with way less gentleness than both she and I would like.
I want to apologize, but if I open my mouth, even for a single word, I’m going to spray chunks.
Shoving through the door and screeching into a stall, I lean over the toilet bowl and let it all go in ugly, retching waves.
When it’s over, I lean against the wall of the stall, catching my breath. The nausea is gone, replaced by a weird sense of relief, but the disgust is alive and well.
Ugh. I hate throwing up so much, and the last thing I need right now is a stomach virus while I’m trying to gain back a little bit of the weight the island took.
Normally, I’d take life’s blessings for what they are on the diet front—like the time I got a stomach virus two weeks before senior prom and my body ended up looking banging in my dress—but of all the times I’ve needed it, this isn’t one of them.
I take a quick glance at myself in the mirror, thankful I didn’t manage to get particles of vomit on my new short-sleeve knit Chloé sweater I bought the other day at Saks when I was shopping for Blanche and Darla. After a quick fluff of my hair, I wash my hands and head back out into the diner.
When I return to the table, June looks concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just had to puke. But I’m feeling better now.”
“You puked?” Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, Avery.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Holy hell,” June mutters through a soft laugh. “Maybe my pregnancy hormones really are getting to you…” She pauses, but then her face morphs from carefree and smiling to eyes narrowed and analyzing my face. “Wait…you don’t think you’re—” she drops her voice “—pregnant, do you?”
Now, it’s my turn to laugh. “Get real, Juni. You have to have sex to get pregnant.”
But you are having sex, my mind reminds me. A lot of it.
Holy hell. That’s right. I’m not a virgin anymore. Not by a long shot.
“Finally, a life update!” June says through a snort. “So, I guess my best friend doesn’t have any man in her life at the moment.”
Her words are another punch to my already tenuous gut. It wasn’t my intention, but I’ve been keeping a lot of shit from my best friend.
Not only does she not know about my pre-Henry virginal status, but she doesn’t know about my post-virginal status with Henry either—my brother’s best friend whom I’ve been fucking every chance I get for the past several weeks.
June starts talking about something adorable Addy did the other day, but I’m mentally spiraling.
Henry and I have sex without protection—lots. Sure, he pulled out on the island and I’ve been on birth control since we got back, but nothing is foolproof. If that Friends episode with Ross and the condom company is anything to go by, there’s literally nothing when you’re fucking that is one hundred percent safe.
Immediately, my stomach tightens—and it’s not from the nausea.
“Avery? Are you even listening?” June asks.
“I gotta go,” I blurt out. “I have a…” I pause, my mind moving ninety miles per hour as I try to pull a random excuse out of my ass. “A Botox appointment. Yeah. Totally forgot about it.”
“Botox?” June repeats, confused. “On a Sunday?”
“It was the only time Fredrick could fit me in. And he’ll be so pissed if I’m a no-show,” I say, grabbing my purse before tossing one of my credit cards down onto the table. “Lunch is on me. Love you!” I call over my shoulder as I head straight for the door.
I should feel like the world’s worst best friend, but fuck, I can’t focus on anything but the giant pregnant elephant in the room.
As I step outside, the Miami sun feels too bright, too hot, and my mind is racing.
I’ve got a bad feeling all that vagina-taunting to June is about to bite me right in the center of my own cooch.
Pregnant?
Shit. Talk about committing, Avery.
Avery
I’m in full-on panic mode, and every possible worst-case scenario is playing out like a bad Lifetime movie marathon, and as luck would have it, that’s when I’m my very most efficient.
Rules? Don’t know them.
Laws? For breaking.
Waiting my turn? Who’s she?
I need some answers, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get them—conscious decision-making or not.
I don’t even remember deciding to go to an OB-GYN, but next thing I know, I’m standing in front of the receptionist at Miami’s most expensive OB practice. The sign on the door says this place is run by Dr. Sofia Moretti—the same Dr. Sofia Moretti who’s been quoted in magazines as being the go-to OB for celebrities. She’s also one of very few doctors in the city who takes Sunday appointments—though, you are supposed to schedule said appointment rather than show up unannounced—and apparently, she delivered Stella St. Clair’s twins last year—yes, the Stella St. Clair, international pop icon and TikTok sensation.