“Doesn’t that mean I should get to see it beforehand?”
“Definitely not.”
I sigh.
Harper is halfway through applying my makeup for the party when it starts. It’s faint at first — a slightly queasy, stirring sensation in the pit of my stomach. I try to breathe deeply, to ignore the increasing nausea creeping through me in an unstoppable tide, but when a sudden rush of saliva fills my mouth, I know it’s a lost cause. Bolting from the vanity stool, I practically leap the three steps across the tile floor to the toilet, where I promptly vomit up the entire contents of my stomach. The spicy stir-fry burns coming back up, making my eyes water and my nose sting.
Note to self: lay off the Sriracha. The tiny dictator is not a fan.
The room is utterly silent except for my occasional retching noises. When I’m finally done, I rise shakily to my feet and lift frightened eyes to my best friend. She’s holding a cold cloth compress extended in my direction. My fingers tremble as I take it from her and press it against my forehead.
“How long?” she asks flatly.
My eyebrows lift.
“How long have you known?”
I blow out a breath. There’s no use lying. The time for pretending is over.
“About three weeks.”
Her jaw clenches. “You’ve known you were pregnant forthree fucking weeksand you didn’t tell me.”
“Harper—”
“What, were you just planning to wait until the baby popped out and hope no one noticed? Maybe play it off as a new style — it’s totallyin right nowto keep a basketball shoved up under your shirt at all times!”
I plunk down on the edge of my basin bathtub and press my fingertips against my temples. A headache is brewing.
“Harper, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I haven’t toldanyone.”
Her eyes narrow. “So… Wyatt… Grayson… No one else knows about this?”
“Well…” I hedge. “Masters kind of… figured it out on his own.”
“Kent knows?!” she explodes. “He knows, before me?”
“It’s not my fault you’re dating a super-sleuth!”
“I’m your best friend! I should’ve been the first to know.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know how to tell you. Somehow, telling you would’ve made it more real. And I just… couldn’t face it yet.” I stare at the ceiling to keep from crying. I am so unbelievably sick of my own useless tears. I’m not sure if it’s the baby hormones swirling through me or simply the fact that everything in my life has fallen to utter shit, but it seems every time I turn around lately, the waterworks start up again.
“Well, it’s certainly real now.” She stares pointedly at my stomach. “If that eggo got preggo in Hawaii or just after we got home… you’d be about…”
“Eight or nine weeks,” I say softly.
Harper’s expression is solemn. “Do you want to keep it?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Do you know who the father—”
“No,” I cut her off. “I don’t know.”
“Are you going to tell them—”
“I don’t know, okay?” A tear tracks down my face. “I don’t know anything, so don’t ask me.”