Page 80 of Anti-Hero

“I took one before we left the office,” I lie. “But it hasn’t kicked in yet, so I’m sticking to soda. I’ll be right back.”

The restroom line is long, at least ten other women waiting in front of me.

I lean against the wall, letting it support my weight, wishing I’d worn flats. The arches of my feet are aching even though I sat most of the day. I’m not sure if sore feet are a pregnancy symptom, but the changes to my body sure aren’t making heelsmorecomfortable.

Ahead of me, two girls are dressed as a campfire and s’mores. They’re drafting a text to a guy one of them is meeting later, collapsing into tipsy giggles every fifteen seconds as their suggestions become increasingly bold.

I study them like a scientist observing a foreign species, realizing that’ll never be me again. When I’m able to drink again, I’ll have anewborn. Then that newborn will become a toddler, that toddler a teenager.

I’ll always have a responsibility for someone else for the rest of my life.

Parenthood doesn’t have an expiration date. It’ll never only be me I have to worry about again.

It’s a bizarre realization to have.

Almost as strange as the idea that I’ll be buying a baby-sized costume a year from now.

By the time I return to the table, everyone’s received their drinks.

I slide back onto my stool and take a long sip from the glass set at my spot. And then, as soon as the flavor hits, I cough, spraying liquid everywhere.

“Collins!” Aimee protests, sliding her sequined clutch farther from me.

“There’s alcohol in this,” I state.

Stella smiles as she tosses some napkins my way. “Only an ounce of vodka. The bartender didn’t even charge for?—”

Panic gathers in my chest, constricting my windpipe and making it hard to breathe. The smoky air feels suffocating all of a sudden.

I stand, grabbing my bag off the sticky floor. “I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta go.”

Any replies get lost in the commotion of the bar as I spin and hurry for the exit.

I skirt around a plaid-wearing farmer and two cows before reaching the door and rushing up the steps to the street. Once I’m outside, I inhale a deep breath, the taboo taste of alcohol buzzing and bitter on my tongue.

“Collins!”

I glance over my shoulder, watching Margot dart up the stairs after me. She’s not wearing a jacket, bare arms hugging her waist for warmth. I can see the raised bumps on her skin from here.

“Are you okay?” she asks, pausing a few feet away and scanning my face anxiously.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Shit.” Her face pales. “I had no idea they’d ordered a real drink for you. But I know they never would have if they’d known?—”

“I know; I know. I’m just … I’m a little on edge tonight. This”—I point at my stomach—“has been a lot. And I found out earlier that my ex is moving here, and I …” I blow out a long breath. “Can we keep all this between us?”

“Of course,” she assures me. “But if you ever need to talk or if you want to go out for a … ginger ale, I’m here. My sister had a baby last year, so I know a lot more about pregnancy than your average childless woman.”

I muster a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll tell the girls you got your period and needed to head out fast.” Margot winks. “No one will suspect a thing.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. “And here, let me give you some money for?—”

She shakes her head, shivering. “Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” I echo as she hurries back inside.

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