We had a wonderful sex. The best sex, and he vanishes like I'm nothing. The bedsheets of the hotel room are now cold and empty–a stark reminder of the warmth they had filled earlier. My friends forced me to be here, in London, and honestly? I had experienced what I needed.
This is the room I booked. My friends? They had to be in other rooms, the ones they booked. The fact that I drank myself into oblivion was stupid, but I had fun. I'll go back on the first flight back to Cape Cod–the place I grew up. And the one place besides New York where I knew who to be.
I threw most of the stuff into my luggage. I cannot stay here. No, I should go to New York first. I should move on, get back into my job.
**
As the weeks pass, I bury myself in work, except for a few times during meetings, especially when I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Maybe it was the hangover still lingering in the air.
I hunch over on the stupid toilet for the hundredth time–retching into it for god knows how long. Flushing the toilet, I finally get up and go wash my hands. Ethan and I had exchanged numbers that night before the tangled hands and sheets.
While washing my hands, a woman comes in with a child. I can't help but feel something. Am I pregnant? Quickly, I finish up and rush out the door. This realtor job is the only thing I have. I cannot be pregnant.
I sent a message that I might be pregnant in the hopes he'll answer, but then again, the two options in front of me are: Keep it or Kill it. Maybe Zanders would understand.
The trip back to Cape Cod after New York was something, empty. I get on the plane for good, leaving whatever it is behind me.
My parents are going to be pissed. Even on the plane, the cries of children fill me with this feeling.
**
The cold air of the hospital and the constant cry of these little children are a reminder that I, too, could be a mother. No, I need to get an abortion. This is not in my plan. I message him again: "Never mind, whatever I said, forget it, Ethan."
Zanders had come with me to the hospital, the OBGYN. "You should just forget him, you know. I'm here. Little Angel has his uncle."
And I cry, everything hitting me at once. He held me, but I could only think of Ethan. When I calm down, my name is called. "Lily Bamford?"
The heads turned, most of them anyway. And no, I never told Ethan that when we were too busy feeling each other.
**
Two weeks after giving them my urine to test, and yes, my Urine, a message popped up: "You are pregnant."
After that, I went down to the dining hall for breakfast and poked around my food. "I...I am pregnant."
Father's face went from happy to angry. My mother was a strategist, always a strategist. "Well, we should... find someone who will marry you so that... child is not raised alone," she said, sensing the tension in the air.
"And what, keep something whose blood we do not know?"
"Arthur, this is hardly the time–" she says.
"Enough, Lucinda, and you are going to abort it. We cannot have rumors filling the paper of a tainted heiress."
And he left. Mother sat there for a little while longer before getting up to leave as well. I knew it. This was only going to end in disaster.