Page 101 of Tempted To Be Mine

I nodded, some of the panic settling. I had a plan now. A timeline. Something to focus on besides the gaping hole in my chest where Lucy used to be.

“Thank you,” I said. “Both of you. For listening. For not telling me I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy,” Sebastian said with a small smile.

I managed a weak laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I finished my whiskey and headed for the door. My mind raced as I planned what I’d say when I found her.

I knew Lucy well enough to know she thought she was giving me an out. My girl thought she was giving me a chance to keep living the life I’d told some reporter I wanted.

But that life didn’t mean anything without her in it. The career and fame meant nothing without her.

35

LUCY

The layover was delayed by two hours. And by the time we boarded, it was only to discover I had one of the worst possible seats. I told myself not to complain. It was just another side effect of traveling with Jeremy. Between the private plane and first-class accommodations, I was spoiled.

And now I was crammed into a middle seat between a businessman who kept sighing every time I moved and a grandmother who wanted to show me pictures of her cats. Under normal circumstances, I would have been charmed by the cats. They were cute. But my stomach had other plans.

The first bout of nausea hit about an hour into the flight. I barely made it to the barf bag in time. The businessman recoiled like I had the plague. The grandmother, bless her heart, just patted my arm and offered me a mint.

“I remember morning sickness,” she said. “My second was the worst. By the fourth, I barely noticed.”

Was it written on my forehead? Did pregnant women give off some kind of signal that other women could detect?

“It’s miserable,” I mumbled.

She nodded sympathetically. “It gets better, dear. The first few months are the worst. After that, you’ll feel like yourself again.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that eventually something about this situation would feel normal. But right then, wedged between strangers at thirty thousand feet, clutching a used barf bag and trying not to cry, normal felt like a distant memory.

I honestly wasn’t sure I could handle what was coming. I had no idea how far along I was. What if I was only a couple of weeks? Good God, could I last another ten weeks? What if I was one of the lucky ones that had it through the whole pregnancy? I’d had a friend, Dakota, who’d been sick for nine months. I’d gone to her baby shower and remembered her complaining about waking up every morning and puking.

The layover in New York was brutal. Five hours of wandering through JFK, too exhausted to sleep but too wired to rest. It was loud. Stinky. Everything stank. A man walked by me and I had to rush to the trash can. Cigarettes. Add that to the list of things little baby Blackwell did not love. So far, it was tuna, floral perfume, and now cigarettes. This kid would make me a hermit.

I turned my phone on for the first time since leaving Switzerland. The notifications flooded in immediately. Texts from Jeremy. Missed calls. Voicemails. Each one felt like a knife to the chest.

Lucy, where are you? Call me.

I’m worried. Please just let me know you’re okay.

The note doesn’t make sense. Whatever’s wrong, we can figure it out. Together.

Please, Lucy. Just talk to me.

I turned the phone off again. I couldn’t read any more. I couldn’t deal with his confusion and hurt. He wanted me to explain something I couldn’t explain. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The final leg of the journey was somehow worse than the first. More turbulence. More nausea. The flight attendants started giving me concerned looks, probably worried I was going to get the whole plane sick. I assured them it wasn’t contagious. Everyone from Germany to LA knew I was pregnant except for the baby’s father.

When the plane finally touched down at LAX, I nearly wept with relief. Solid ground. Familiar territory. Home. Except home didn’t feel like home anymore.

I collected my bags and made my way through the terminal on autopilot. It was sunset. I couldn’t even begin to guess what day it was. Was I a day ahead or behind? I’d been traveling for a day. All I could think about was getting to my apartment, closing the door behind me, and collapsing.

The Uber ride felt endless. Traffic on the 405 was brutal, as always. I sat in the back seat with my forehead pressed against the cool window, watching the brake lights blur into a stream of red. Thankfully, the nausea seemed to be taking a break.

The driver tried to make small talk. I gave him one-word answers until he got the hint and turned up the radio instead. Some pop song I didn’t recognize filled the silence. I was grateful for it.