Back then continues...
Sarah
The next day, things go from bad to worse.
I hear a sharp knock on my door, and when I open it, Rebecca stands there, her cheeks flushed pink, eyes bright with excitent.
"Oh my god, Sarah, why didn’t you tell !?" she squeals, pushing past into the apartnt without waiting for an invitation.
I close the door slowly, trying to compose myself.
"What do you an?" I manage, forcing a smile as I already know what this is about.
Rebecca clasps her hands together, drawing a deep breath. "You are pregnant!" she declares, her voice ringing through my apartnt. "How the hell did this happen? I didn’t even realize you slept with Matthew."
That’s because I didn’t.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them back. "It just happened," I say instead.
Rebecca throws herself onto my couch, kicking off her shoes. "And now you’re getting married! Your mom called this morning, asking if I’d be your maid of honor. She’s already talking about venues and caterers. She sounded... well, not thrilled, but definitely in full planning mode."
My stomach drops. Of course Mom would call Rebecca. Of course she’s already planning. The Wilson family never lets scandal simr—they smother it with expensive floral arrangents and champagne fountains.
"It’s all happening so fast," I say, sinking into the armchair across from her.
Rebecca studies , her excitent dimming slightly. "Are you okay? You don’t seem very... pregnant-happy."
I force a smile. "Just morning sickness. And shock, I guess."
What are you doing, Sarah? A voice asks sowhere at the back of my mind. Rebecca is your best friend. Tell her the truth.
But I keep my mouth shut because I am a goddamn coward.
"Well, at least Matthew is doing the right thing," she says, pulling out her phone. "Not many n would propose so quickly. Shows character."
Does it? Or does it show a man trapped by obligation?
"Have you set a date yet?" she asks, already scrolling through what looks like wedding venues.
"No, but apparently my mother has ideas," I say, not hiding the bitterness in my tone.
Rebecca laughs. "Don’t be too hard on her."
God, what am I going to do? I can’t fake a pregnancy forever. I can’t walk down the aisle to a man who’s only marrying because of a baby that doesn’t exist.
"Hey," Rebecca says softly, noticing my expression. "This is a lot, isn’t it?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
"Do you love him?" she asks.
The question hits like a slap. Do I? Or do I just want him because he chose Amanda? Because he’s the first man who didn’t imdiately fall at my feet?
No, that’s not true. I do love Matthew.
"I do," I whisper.
Rebecca sets her phone down, leaning forward. "Then you should look more excited."
For a mont, I think about telling her everything again. Rebecca would understand. She’s kept my secrets before. But the words stick in my throat.
"We need to go shopping for baby stuff," she chirps.
I only stare at her.
Shopping?
For baby stuff?
Rebecca is beaming with enthusiasm. "You will need a crib, cute little onesies, everything. We should make a whole day of it."
Panic flares in my chest. My hands feel clammy. I can barely think past the tightness in my throat.
I can’t do this.
I can’t walk into a baby store and pretend to be picking out things for a child that doesn’t exist.
"I—" I clear my throat, forcing out a weak laugh. "I think it’s a little early for that, don’t you? I’m barely a few weeks along."
Rebecca waves a hand. "It’s never too early!"
I grip the armrest of the chair, my nails digging into the fabric. "Maybe next week," I say, my voice light, casual.
Rebecca nods. "Okay. How about next weekend?"
I nod, but my stomach is in knots.
Next weekend.
I have until then to figure out a way out of this.
But could I really get out of this?
The lie is already too big. My mother is planning a wedding. My father has given his blessing.
And now there’s Rebecca, promising baby shopping and nursery colors and god knows what else.
I have until next weekend.
Seven days.
Seven days to fix this before it all cos crashing down.
~-~
But alas, I couldn’t co up with a way to fix anything.
I really am a coward.
Rebecca managed to drag inside a baby boutique, and now, I am standing in front of a hand-carved crib, feeling like the worst person in the world.
Rebecca, anwhile, is in full shopping mode. She runs her fingers along tiny knitted blankets, cooing at the impossibly small socks. "Oh my god, Sarah, look at this," she says, holding up a onesie that says Mommy’s Little Miracle in cursive letters.
Miracle.
More like a disaster.
I force a smile, my throat tight. "It’s cute."
Rebecca beams, tossing it into a growing pile of items she’s already decided I need. "You should start thinking about thes. Are you leaning towards sothing classic? Or maybe modern and minimalist? Oh! What if we do a vintage aesthetic? Think soft pastels and lace."
She’s talking so fast, so enthusiastically, that I can barely process the words. My vision blurs slightly as I stare at the crib in front of , its delicate carvings taunting with the life I’m pretending to have.
I grip the edge of it, forcing my breathing to stay even.
I should stop this.
Right now.
But the words won’t co out.
Rebecca turns to , holding up a tiny stuffed rabbit. "Sarah, what do you think?"
I think I am a terrible person.
I think I am digging myself deeper into a lie I will never escape.
I think I am about to pass out in a damn baby store.
Instead, I take the rabbit from her hands and squeeze it gently, the softness almost painful against my fingertips. "It’s perfect," I whisper.
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