Page 63 of Not a Strong Enough Word

Taylor chimes in. “She’s got it all.” I know her name for sure. I think.

I flash a tight smile and nod, forcing myself not to look off-camera to the director. Where the fuck is this going?

“We found a picture of you two on your social media. Can we show it?” Kathy-or-Kelly asks someone with a headset. “Oh, there it is.”

The studio audience coos as a picture from six months ago flashes on a screen behind us. It’s a sunny day. My hair is in a thick ponytail, and my sunglasses are on top of my head. I’m squinting up at Ryan who has his arm around my shoulders. He’s looking down at me with absolute adoration all over his face. He looks so happy. And so do I—happy and healthy. I added the tank top I’m wearing in that picture to the donation pile before I left for New York because it started to hang off me.

Because the picture is behind me, I have to twist uncomfortably to see it, and I’m glad I’m not facing a camera when I do because my smile falters. Was this in the show notes? I feel like I’d remember this.

“Ohh, you’re so cute,” Janice-or-Janie croons. Fuck, her name is Jackie. “He looks about ready to propose here. Don’t you think?” The other women hum and nod in affirmation.

“Thanks.” I fix my smile back on my face and turn around so I don’t have to see that picture anymore. It’s a nonanswer, but I’m frozen, completely unsure of how to proceed. Of course I see myself married to Ryan, expanding our family, reading and writing and loving each other forever. If only I could find the time to start that chapter of our lives.

“Is it true he’s your editor? How romantic,” Taylor swoons.

“Uh, no. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing? I blink a few times, giving myself a moment to recover. “He works with my publisher but not officially on my books.”

“I bet he works on them unofficially.” Jackie elbows me playfully.

Is that some kind of innuendo? “He reads every word.” I grin harder, hoping this segment is almost over. Talking about my personal life is almost never allowed, so I’m not sure how this slipped past everyone whose job it is to approve interview questions.

“So lucky,” Kathy-or-Kelly says. It’s unclear if she’s referring to me or Ryan.

“And with that, it’s time for a commercial break. We’ll be right back.” Taylor smiles into the camera. We all pause for a moment until we get the all-clear. They usher me off-camera, remove my mic, and I’m free to go.

Three more sleeps. Then three months off. I can do this.

After that interview, I task Trina with making sure I won’t be ambushed with any more personal questions. She assures me I won’t. Ryan calls, and he laughs a bit about the whole thing, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. He didn’t sign up to be in the limelight, though I guess it’s at least a little inevitable. Then, I write some more and end up passing out in my clothes sometime around one in the morning.

The next day, I write and write and write. I have a rare day between interviews with no obligations, and I intend to use it. JPM wants pages, and I’m determined to give them something that isn’t absolute shit. I don’t realize I’ve forgotten to eat until my phone rings yet again. A brief glance at the clock tells me it’s past two in the afternoon. My stomach rumbles.

Pushing myself up from the table, I look around for my phone, but it’s nowhere to be found. The ringing stops, then starts up again from the other side of the bed. Right. I put it in my purse so I wouldn’t get distracted.

I flop onto the bed and grab my purse to rummage through it. Wallet, lipstick, tissues, a couple of mints, pads and tampons, a granola bar I was saving for later. Phone. There it is.

In the span of a few seconds, the phone goes silent, and I go still. My stomach drops.

Pads and tampons.

I brought them with because I was supposed to start my period almost as soon as I got to New York a week ago. Frantically, I dump all the contents of my purse onto the bed until I find my packet of birth control pills. I’ve never been good at remembering to take medication, but with the exception of those stupid placebo pills at the end of the month, I’m usually pretty good about taking these. Because there is absolutely no way I could handle a baby right now. Not with this schedule. Not with this pressure. No matter how much I want a kid somewhere down the line.

But sure enough, I missed a few pills this month.

It’s hard to fill my lungs, almost as if the air in my hotel room is suddenly thin. Okay, Scarlett. Don’t panic, I try to tell myself. There’s nothing to do but make sure. It’s probably nothing. Stress can cause you to miss a period. So can weight loss.

I shove everything into my purse and hurry out the door.

Two lines.

Two fucking lines.

My phone rings yet again as I’m standing in the bathroom, holding the positive test. Instead of the relief I usually feel when I see Ryan’s name, my heart starts racing. Am I supposed to tell him I’m pregnant over the phone? How is he going to react? Is this something he wants? Is this something I want?

Yes. With him. Eventually.

Not now. I can’t right now. This is going to change everything, and not in a magical way where everything will be fixed. In an awful way where I will have a baby and still need to fulfill my contracts with JMP.

With a shaky hand, I answer the phone and bring it to my ear. “Hey, you.” My own forced cheerfulness makes me wince, but Ryan doesn’t seem to notice.