Page 30 of Baby for My Best Friend's Brother

After the fourth time my phone lights up, I turn it over, silencing the screen.

Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow back against it. I’ve already prayed to the porcelain goddess this morning. Twice. I don’t want to do it again.

If I’m this sick now, I can’t imagine what it’ll be like when I’m actually pregnant.

Though, I suppose I won’t be too upset about puking my guts out every morning if it means I’m finally on my way to having a family. The toast turns to paste in my mouth. I reach for my phone again and tap out a quick message.

ME:You home from your honeymoon yet?

WINTER:Got back last night. What’s going on??

ME:I’m getting ready to leave for the clinic. It’s happening today.

WINTER:And how do you feel?

ME:Torn.

My phone rings immediately. I answer on the first ring.

“I’m sorry,” Winter says without preamble, her voice tight with guilt. “If I’d known you were going to fall for him, I never would’ve pushed you together.”

“You never pretended it was supposed to be anything more than a fling.” I give a short, humorless laugh. “I’m the idiot who caught feelings.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“I feel like an idiot. But…”

“But…” Winter prompts.

“I don’t regret it,” I say quietly. “Even if it hurts now. I just thought—hoped—there might be more. I left him a letter at the front desk. Told him everything. I haven’t heard a word.”

“You did what?” Winter’s voice sharpens.

“I left him a letter,” I repeat, pressing a hand to my fluttering stomach. “I poured my heart out. Told him how I felt. That I wanted to try IVF, but that I’d fallen for him anyway.”

“And he never responded?”

“Not even a text.”

There’s a tense silence on the other end before she growls, “Maybe he didn’t get it.”

“Maybe.” I swallow hard. “Or maybe he did and decided not to say anything.”

“Don’t,” Winter warns. “Don’t do that. Don’t assume the worst. Cliff might be an emotionally constipated mountain man, but he’s not cruel. If he’d read that letter—if he knew how you felt—hewould’vesaid something.”

“Please don’t go confronting him,” I say. “You know how stubborn he is. If he didn’t reach out, he had his reasons.”

“That doesn’t mean they’regoodreasons.”

“Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. I was the one who said it was just a fling. I meant it—at the time. I told him not to get attached.”

“But youdid.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I really did.”

Winter lets out a slow breath. “Do you still want to go through with it?”

I look around my quiet kitchen—the mug of tea, the uneaten toast, the half-packed tote with snacks and a book for the waiting room.

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