The back door bangs open and Z appears, looking annoyingly perfect in his cook’s whites despite the heat. His dark hair is tied back. He’s hit that last growth spurt guys sometimes get, his shoulders and his chest widening out—as if the rest of his body is finally catching up to his six-foot-two height.
“Harp?” His eyes scan me, immediate concern replacing his usual cocky expression. “Rosa said you ran out here. You good?”
“She’s puking,” Ximena supplies helpfully.
“I’mfine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Can everyone stop?—”
The dishwasher beeps from inside, signaling the cycle’s done. Shit.
I push past them both, ignoring Z’s protests, and head back into the inferno of the kitchen. The dishwasher’s door hisses as I open it, steam billowing out. I grab the rack of clean plates—hot enough to burn my fingers even through the towel—and start stacking them on the shelf.
Stack. Stack. Stack. Don’t think. Just work.
Ximena appears at my elbow, taking over the stacking with practiced ease. “You should go home.”
“I can’t afford to miss a shift. We’re trying to save up for a place of our own. I’m fine?—”
“You just puked by the dumpsters, and you look like you’re about to pass out.” She keeps her voice low, probably trying notto attract attention. Too late—Rosa’s already giving us the side-eye from her station. “When’s the last time you ate anything that stayed down?”
I try to think. Yesterday? Maybe? Damn it, Ximena’s right. The coffee this morning made me nauseous, and the last time I ate was… I can’t even remember.
“Harper.” Ximena’s voice drops even lower. “When was your last period?”
I start to laugh at her when my hands freeze mid-stack.
Because what she’s speculating literally isn’t possible. I got an IUD put in when I was fifteen at the local clinic. If there was one thing I was going to be damn sure of, it was that I was never going to be a pregnant teenager like my mother.
But still. I frown.
Whenwasmy last period?
Everything’s been so crazy, not even having a place to live for the first few weeks after leaving Dallas—God, the last thing I was thinking about was tracking my period.
Z and I are still sharing a singlephone, for Christ’s sake.
Life is way too nuts to think about anything so mundane as?—
“I—” The kitchen spins a little. “I don’t?—”
“Come on.” Ximena grabs my elbow, steering me toward the back hall that leads to a little office and bathroom. “We’re taking a break.”
“We’re in the middle of service?—”
“Rosa can handle it for five minutes.”
Ximena practically shoves me into the tiny bathroom—barely big enough for a toilet and sink—and follows me in, locking the door behind us.
“Ximena, seriously, I have an IUD,” I explain. “There’s no way?—”
But she’s already digging in the small cabinet underneath the sink, pulling out a familiar blue and white box.Clearblue. Thesame brand they sell at every dollar store and pharmacy from here to fucking Canada.
“Aunt Dani started buying them in bulk after our other cousin, who used to work here, got knocked up. She keeps them here and in the office because girls working service always seem too busy or stressed to keep track.”
The test feels like it weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.
“I have an IUD,” I repeat, hearing the desperate edge in my own voice. “I got it when I was fifteen. It’s good for like, ten years or something.”
“Nothing’s 100%.” Ximena’s voice is gentle but firm. “Just pee on the stick, Harper. Then we’ll know.”