Page 32 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Honestly?

I don’t even know how tobeginto process this.

Banks. My temporary roommate. My brother'shotter than anyone I’ve ever metand has real life absbest friend. The guywho whispered all those dirty words with his mouth on my skin six weeks ago. Of course then I pushed him away because I’m an asshole and couldn’t cope with the consequences of what we did or how it made me feel.

I’ve regretted it for the last six weeks and now the joke’s on me. I’ve got enough consequences to deal with to literally last a lifetime and not a single shoulder to cry on.

I sink down to the floor as I do something I haven’t let myself do in six weeks—I think back to that night. The one where we couldn't keep our hands off each other long enough to think about basic protection.

Ugh. How could we be so stupid?

I close my eyes but that just makes it worse because now I'm seeing it all in crystal fucking clear high def—Banks pinning me to the wall, his teeth scraping along my neck, marking me. The way we practically tore each other's clothes off. His voice all gravelly in my ear, telling me how he’swanted this for so long, Freckleswhile he pushed inside me. The way I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, begging formore more morewhile neither of us even breathed the word "condom" because we were too busy drowning in each other.

And now here I am. Sitting on my bathroom floor staring at the result of that night. Two pink lines that are about to change everything.

The nausea that's been kicking my ass for two weeks rolls through me again. I've been lying to myself—telling myself it was stress or maybe food poisoning or literally anything other than what it obviously is. But the missed period? Boobs that hurt so bad even breathing makes them ache? I'm an idiot for not connecting the dots sooner.

No one can know about this. Not until I figure out what the hell I'm going to do. Not until I work out how to tell Banksthat our "onetime mistake" just turned into the most permanent thing either of us will ever do.

“Stupid hot alphahole firefighter,” I mutter to Bellini, the jade plant that lives on the bathroom windowsill. “This is his fault for being so irresistible. I blame him.”

My phone buzzes, and I see text pop up from Navy.

Navy: Where are you? Theo's asking, but I covered for you. Just let me know if you’re okay.

Double shit. I'm beyond late for my shift at Ember. I drag myself up off the floor, splash ice-cold water on my face, and try to pull myself together. Like I can somehow wash away the fact that my entire life plan just wentpoof.

"You can do this," I tell my reflection, trying to sound convincing. "You're Clover fucking James. You've survived worse."

The woman in the mirror stares back at me with red-rimmed eyes that call me a liar.

Four hours into my shift at Ember, and I'm barely keeping it together.

The nausea hits me in waves, each one worse than the last. I've been choking back vomit every few minutes while mixing drinks and pretending everything's normal. I’m popping Altoids every couple of minutes because the mint is the only thing that keeps me from puking, but I’ve had a few near misses.

And the stupid tin is already down to less than a quarter left.

My smile feels like it's been painted on with cheap Halloween makeup. It’s fake as hell and probably terrifying if you look too close. Like a clown.

Yep, that’s me. A clown.

It's Friday night, so of course we're completely slammed. Every seat at the bar is taken, and the high-tops are packed with groups of women ordering those complicated Instagram-worthy cocktails that take forever to make. Navy and I move around each other while we work, but I can tell she's watching me.

Imagine what she’d say if I lose the battle (or my Altoids run out) and throw up in one of the trashcans back here behind the bar.

I take a deep breath in through my nose and slowly blow it out of my mouth and try to focus on anything other than the smell of alcohol and sickeningly sweet juice mixing in the most disgusting way imaginable. How did I never notice how horrible it smells back here?

"You seriously look like death," she whispers as we pass each other behind the bar. "And that's the fourth time you've disappeared to the bathroom."

"It’s just something I ate," I lie, pouring tequila for a banana margarita that I'm one hundred percent sure is going to make me vomit. Who the fuck orders abananamargarita? I gag but try to hide it with a cough. My hands are shaking so bad I almost miss the glass. "Not a big deal."

It’s thebiggestdeal.

I want to tell her so bad, but it wouldn’t be fair to tell her before I tell Banks, right? Or maybe I should just confess, and she can help me work through what the hell I’m gonna do.

She narrows her eyes at me in that way that says she's not buying what I'm selling, but thankfully we're too slammed for her to interrogate me the way she normally would.

I make it another forty-five minutes before the strongest wave of nausea yet hits me like a wrecking ball. There's no fighting this one.

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