Page 46 of The Final Faceoff
I’m not going anywhere.
Even when the smell is . . . I grimace, inhaling through my mouth as the stench of whatever she ate earlier threatens to make me the next victim. “Okay, maybe I should head to my parents’ or something.”
She groans, forehead still against her arm. “Shut up and suffer with me.”
I smirk, rubbing slow circles on her back. “I already am, Hailey Bean. I already am.”
ChapterFifteen
Hailey
If You’re in a Shootout, You Have to Face the Truth
Here’s the thing no one tells you about pregnancy: it’s not just a life-changing event. It’s a full-time job that you didn’t apply for, weren’t trained for, and now can’t quit. Nope, you’re here for at least thirty-eight weeks. Then you’re promoted to Mom. In all honesty, I’m not sure if that’s a title I should hold. So far, I suck at this motherhood thing and it’s just the beginning.
My best friend knows more about my pregnancy than I do. Every time I start reading one of those books he bought me, I’m out like a light. At this point, I’m less of an expectant mother and more of a sleep-deprived woman finally cashing in on years of missed rest. Which, to be fair, started the second I set foot at NYU—against my father’s wishes. A minor moving to New York for school? Not exactly his dream. Thankfully, my grandmother won that battle. Now, if only she could win the war against my eyelids.
The point is that I can’t get through a chapter of a pregnancy book and . . . well, I’m never going to be prepared.
Now, if only I could take a break so I can catch up with my body. But nope. There’s no off switch. And unlike normal, functional jobs, this one doesn’t even have the decency to let you call in sick. Which, frankly, feels deeply ironic given that I spend ninety-five percent of my time being sick.
The past week has been one long, unholy cycle of misery. My morning sickness—which, let’s all agree, should be sued for false advertising.
Like clockwork, every evening at exactly 6:00 PM, my body stages a full-scale rebellion.
It doesn’t matter what I’ve eaten (or haven’t eaten), what I’m doing, or how much positive thinking I’ve attempted. Morning sickness—which is the biggest scam in medical terminology—has decided it will be an evening affair for me. Every. Single. Day.
Leif has noticed.
Which is why, at precisely 5:58 PM, he glances at me with mild concern, like a man watching a storm roll in from the distance—calm, resigned, and mentally preparing for the impact.
By 6:00, I’m fighting it. A deep breath. A silent pep talk. A desperate, last-ditch attempt to will my body into submission. Usually before 6:02, I’m in the bathroom, paying for my life choices while he holds my hair back, his other hand tracing soothing circles on my back, murmuring reassurances like he’s in this with me—like I’m not entirely alone in the mess I’ve made.
His behavior makes me teary every time, because he’s the best. I mean, not anyone would be putting up with a puking woman with a life crisis. Leif? He’s just a prince holding hair, tending to my every need and covering me with a blanket every time I fall asleep.
The past week has been a blur of nausea, interrupted sleep, and an absurd amount of ginger-based products that have done absolutely nothing except make me resent ginger as a concept. In all forms. Ginger tea? Useless. Ginger chews? Satanic. That smug little root sitting in the kitchen like it knows something I don’t? I hate it.
I brace my hands on either side of the toilet, my forehead nearly resting against the seat, because my body has officially turned against me. My stomach clenches again, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this to be over.
A warm hand gathers my hair, sweeping it away from my face like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Leif.
Of course it’s Leif. As usual, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just kneels beside me, his fingers gentle as he keeps my hair back, waiting me out like he has nothing better to do than sit through this horror show.
Once I finish, he helps me stand already holding a napkin. Then I proceed to brush my teeth and use the mouthwash.
“Water?” he asks.
His gaze flicks over my face, assessing, and something about the quiet way he watches me makes my throat close up. This is the part where I always want to cry because my life choices suck. I’ve been so busy avoiding life that now I’m pregnant and alone. There’s no partner and this guy who always goes above and beyond is stuck with me. I should just . . . I don’t even want to think because the one thing I’ve caught up from some articles is that the hormones can make me think irrational thoughts.
I simply shake my head.
“No?” he asks.
“No.”
He doesn’t argue. “Crackers?”
