Page 40 of Connor

He left then, and I got into bed, remembering the feel of Summer’s fingers when she used to run them through my hair. The pillow was soft, but it wasn’t the same as when her body was pressed against mine.

I turned onto my side, staring at the wall, willing myself to sleep. But sleep didn’t come. Only the ache in my chest. Only the lingering taste of whiskey and regret. Only her voice, repeating over and over in my head.

I’m pregnant.

It felt like I’d slipped over the edge of the cliff and now I was just falling, spiraling, and I didn’t know if I’d ever stop.

Chapter 12

Summer

The cursor blinked at me.

Once. Twice. A steady, rhythmic pulse that somehow felt louder than my own heartbeat. The confirmation email sat open on my laptop screen, the bright white background burning into my retinas. The words were simple. Routine. An appointment scheduled for next week, a date, a time, a reminder that this was happening.

That it was real.

My stomach twisted, nausea rolling through me in slow, thick waves. Not the kind that sent me bolting to the bathroom. This was different. Heavier. Colder.

I could still pretend it wasn’t real. That this was all some bizarre, drawn-out fever dream that I’d eventually wake up from. That the test was wrong, that the words on the screen weren’t tethering me to something I couldn’t undo. But if I clicked that button, if I confirmed the appointment—there’d be no more pretending.

, My free hand drifted to my stomach. My fingers splayed over the soft fabric of my hoodie—Connor’s hoodie. I’d been wearing it all morning without thinking, the scent of faded cologne and old whiskey lingering in the fabric, barely there but enough. Enough to remind me. Enough to make it harder.

I didn’t know how long I sat there, staring at the screen, paralyzed by indecision. But then—

Knock. Knock.

The sound snapped me out of it, sharp and unexpected, sending my pulse into overdrive.

I closed the laptop on instinct, the confirmation still pending. For a split second, I thought—Connor.That maybe lastnight had done something to him. That maybe he’d come back, maybe he was finally ready to fix the mess we’d made.

But when I swung the door open, it wasn’t him.

It was Victor.

And my stomach dropped.

"Hey," he greeted casually, but his gaze flickered over me, taking in my messy bun, the dark circles under my eyes, the hoodie two sizes too big on my frame. "You ready for lunch?"

Shit.

My throat closed. I forgot.

His stare lingered, just for a second too long, like he was searching for something, like he could see straight through me. And for a terrifying, suffocating moment, I was convinced he knew. That he saw the panic written all over my face, that he somehow felt the secret pressing against my ribs.

But then, just as quickly, the moment passed.

He didn’t know.

Not yet.

I forced my muscles to unlock, swallowing hard as I tried to school my expression into something that wasn’t guilt, wasn’t terror, wasn’t the overwhelming urge to tell him everything just so I wouldn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

I lied instead.

"Yeah," I murmured, rubbing at my temple like I could erase the tension coiling there. "Just tired."

Victor didn’t move right away. His brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded, accepting my answer even if he didn’t believe it. "Come on then," he said, stepping back, gesturing toward his car.

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