Page 109 of Office Hours
I nod, but it’s a lie. I stunned, over the moon, and elated. I want to sit in this ugly, too-bright room and just let it all sink in.
I gather my clothes, stumble into them, barely noticing the nurse’s careful smile as I leave. The world outside is blinding—June sun on concrete, birds that sound too loud and too alive. I walk out of the clinic and into the city, my body moving on autopilot, my mind somewhere three feet above my own head.
I don’t call Liam. I don’t call Andie. I just walk, step after step, until my legs hurt and my heart slows to something like normal.
A pregnant pause, in every sense of the word.
The shock sits in my ribcage like a loaded gun. I know I can’t leave it there forever. But for now, I just let the weight of it settle, as heavy and as real as the sun on my bare arms.
I keep walking, unsure if I’m running away or towards, and for once, I don’t try to figure it out.
Andie’s is waitingfor me at the corner table, her hair braided and looped into some kind of Viking crown that only she could make look accidental. The rest of her is pure Andie: threadbare tee, rainbow shorts, Birkenstocks that have seen so much life they should be entered into evidence. She’s already halfway through an iced coffee the color of wet cement, and the condensation has formed a lake around the base of the glass.
When she sees me, she lifts both arms, jazz-hands style, and hollers, “Queen McCall! Over here!”
It’s a miracle I don’t collapse on the spot. I weave through the crowd and drop into the seat across from her, the motion jostling the table enough to send her phone skittering towards the sugar caddy. She grins and grabs it, tucking the phone into her lap.
“Simone, your aura is a mess. What gives?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I close it, then open again, like a defective Muppet.
She leans in, her tone dropping to mock serious. “Are you dying?”
I want to say no, but that might actually be easier. I look around the café—no one’s paying attention. I lower my voice anyway. “I’m pregnant,” I whisper, like the word itself might trigger an alarm.
Andie doesn’t react right away. Her eyes go wide, then wider, then impossibly round. She glances at my stomach as if expecting to see the world’s fastest baby bump. Then she snorts and covers her mouth with her hand, stifling a laugh that bursts out anyway.
“No you’re not,” she says, still grinning.
I nod. “It’s real. Just found out this morning.”
She screams. Not a horror-movie shriek, but a full-throated, joyful whoop that bounces off the exposed brick and turns a dozen heads. I shrivel into my seat, but she’s not embarrassed; she’s vibrating with delight. She stands, rounds the table, and nearly tackles me in a hug, pinning my arms to my sides. Her hair smells like coconut and chlorine.
“Oh my god, this is huge,” she says in my ear, squeezing tight. “Are you happy? Are you scared? Are you going to keep it?”
She says it all in one breath, then releases me, hovering inches away with that laser-focus only best friends can muster.
I try to process the questions. “Yes, I’m going to keep it,” I admit. “But I think I’m still in shock.”
Andie plants her hands on my cheeks and looks me dead in the eyes. “It’s okay to be all of the above. I’m here for you no matter what.” Her voice is low, serious, and suddenly I feel the tears threatening again.
I blink hard, fighting them off. “I was going to wait to tell you, but?—”
“Fuck that,” Andie says. “You tell your best friend everything, even if it’s ugly or weird or you’re still working out how you feel. That’s the rule.”
I nod, and the knot in my throat loosens a little. I take a sip of her coffee, just to do something with my hands. It tastes like battery acid and bad decisions.
Andie slides back into her chair, curls her legs under her, and fixes me with her therapist face. “Okay. When did this happen? Like, how pregnant are you?”
“Maybe five weeks,” I say. “Could be six, tops. It’s early.”
She beams. “You know who the dad is, right?” She says it with a wry, pointed look.
My face must say it all, because she hoots with laughter. “Shit, Sim, you and Professor Hottie McHotts must have had some fun at the cabin, huh?”
I bury my face in my hands. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? He’s objectively hot. And also, he’s your boyfriend, and not your professor anymore. This is like a modern day fairy tale.”
