Page 114 of Beloved Beauty

My blood goes cold.

“Oh shit, Alex,” I whisper to the empty design office. “What have we done?”

Being late doesn’t mean I’m pregnant.

It’s practically my mantra at this point. I’ve repeated it so many times in my head today I could slap it on a throw pillow and start an Etsy shop.

I shove my phone under a stack of fabric books and try to focus on the task in front of me. But all I can think about is that damn due date blinking at me.

I mean, my cycle could be off. That’s normal, right?

The IUD was hormonal. Hormones mess with cycles. Removing the IUD could throw things off.

There was no warning label that said: Caution: you could build a human two weeks after the removal of this device.

Still… I reach for my phone again. I type the words before I chicken out.

How soon can you get pregnant after IUD removal?

Enter.

The first result pops up: Immediately. For some women, ovulation resumes within days.

I scroll further.

Pregnancy is possible within the first cycle after removal.

Fertility returns quickly for most women.

Well, that’s great.

Just freaking fantastic.

I sink lower into my chair and stare at the ceiling tiles.

“Perfect,” I say under my breath. “Love that for me.”

By 4:30, I’ve made it through the workday on the irrational belief that if I ignore my uterus long enough, it’ll get its act together and show up to the party.

It doesn’t.

So on the drive home, I pull into the pharmacy and act as though I’m not about to make eye contact with my entire future. I head straight for the aisle that screams Hi, I may or may not be pregnant, but I’m definitely spiraling.

And of course, there’s a teenage boy stocking shelves two feet away. I do my best not to make eye contact as I grab one box… and another… and a third just in case.

Three tests. Three brands. Not because I’m dramatic––okay, I am––but because I need confirmation from every major pregnancy oracle on the shelf.

I bring them to the counter where the cashier—bless her—tries very hard not to react. Still, I catch it. The micro-tilt of her head. The almost-smile that says she’s silently wishing me either luck or peace.

She scans the boxes in silence, and I swipe my card.

She hands me the bag, and I swear her eyes say congratulations or condolences?

In my head, I whisper back Honestly? Same.

By the time I get home, I’ve run through every scenario—including faking my own death and moving to Tasmania. I shove the pharmacy bag deep into the cabinet under the sink, next to my box of tampons. Irony, party of one.

I’m sautéing garlic when the door opens. I hear his heavy footsteps across the tile—sneakers soft, but his stride unmistakable—and then the comforting sound of him heading straight for me.

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