Four weeks since I climbed out of Tobias Murphy's bedroom window.
Four weeks of elaborate avoidance strategies, of pressing myself against walls when he passes in hallways, of scheduling my entire work life around not being alone with him for even thirty seconds.
I stare at my computer screen, pretending to review the youth program budget while Jordan discusses campaign logistics with Tobias three desks away.
Even from here, I can smell his cologne—that expensive scent that makes my body respond like I've been struck by lightning.
"The governor's team wants to schedule a debate prep session," Jordan says, flipping through his tablet. "Thursday work for you?"
"Check with Veronica first," Tobias replies, and I hate how her name makes my stomach clench. "She's coordinating the campaign appearances. We need to present a unified front, apparently."
She's been here every day for two weeks now, transforming the administrative building into her personal stage.
Designer suits that cost more than my rent, strategic photo ops with her manicured hand on Tobias's arm whenever photographers are present. Playing the supportive ex-wife reuniting for the greater good of his political career.
"Ava, you coming to lunch?" Chloe appears at my desk, already pulling on her jacket. "That new Thai place opened across the street."
"Can't. Too much work." It's the same excuse I've used every day, but it's getting harder to sell.
"You've lost weight." She frowns, studying me with those sharp eyes she inherited from her father. "And you look pale. Like, genuinely concerning pale. Are you getting sick?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"You're not fine. You've been weird for weeks. Ever since…" She pauses, her expression softening. "Is this about Tyler? Because he's not worth making yourself sick over. Trust me, I shared a womb with him."
"It's not about Tyler." The half-truth burns my throat. "I'm just focused on work. The youth program launch is next month."
"Bullshit. But fine, keep your secrets." She sighs, perching on the edge of my desk. "Dad asked about you yesterday. Said you've been avoiding the third-floor meetings."
Before I can defend myself, a wave of nausea hits. I grip the edge of my desk, swallowing hard against the sudden urge to vomit.
"Okay, you're definitely sick." Chloe's voice sharpens with concern. "You just went green. Like, actually green."
"I'm fine. Just need water."
"You need a doctor. When's the last time you went for a check-up?"
The question makes me pause. When was my last appointment? I usually go every few months, paranoid about my health after watching Mom work herself to exhaustion.
But with everything that's happened, Tyler's betrayal, that night with Tobias, the constant stress of avoiding him, I've completely lost track.
"I... I don't remember. Maybe two months ago?"
"Jesus, Ava. You're literally the most responsible person I know, and you're telling me you forgot a medical appointment?" Chloe pulls out her phone. "That's it. I'm calling my dad's physician."
"No!" The word comes out too sharp. "I mean, I have insurance through the municipal building. I should use that. I'll make an appointment for this week, I promise."
"You'll make one today," Chloe insists. "I'm not leaving your desk until you do."
She's as stubborn as her father, so I pull up the clinic website on my phone. My mother's clinic, where Dr. Martinez works. She's known me since I was twelve, and more importantly, she won't immediately report everything to my mother.
"There. Happy?" I show Chloe the confirmation screen. "Three-thirty today."
"Good. Text me after, okay? Let me know you're alive and that it's nothing serious."
She squeezes my shoulder before heading to lunch, leaving me alone with my churning stomach and racing thoughts.
I've been feeling off for weeks—exhausted no matter how much I sleep, nauseous in the mornings, and coffee suddenly smells wrong. Yesterday, I nearly threw up when someone microwaved fish in the break room.
Maybe it's an ulcer from stress. Or my thyroid acting up—that runs in Mom's family.
God, what if it's something serious? Something expensive? My insurance is decent but not great, and I can barely make rent as it is. The last thing I need is medical debt on top of everything else.
***
The waiting room at the clinic smells like disinfectant and anxiety. I fill out the forms with shaking hands, listing my symptoms: fatigue, nausea, sensitivity to smells, occasional dizziness.
Under "reason for visit," I write "general check-up" because that sounds less dramatic than "I feel like death and worry I'm dying."
"Ava?" Dr. Martinez appears with her warm smile. "Your mom didn't mention you were coming in."
"She doesn't know. I... wanted to handle this myself. You know how she worries."
Her expression shifts to professional concern as she leads me to an exam room. "What's going on? The nurse said you've been experiencing fatigue and nausea?"
"Yeah, for maybe two weeks now. I thought it was just stress from work, but it's getting worse. Yesterday I couldn't even finish my morning coffee—the smell made me sick. And I'm exhausted all the time, even after sleeping ten hours."
"Any other symptoms? Headaches? Fever? Changes in appetite?"
"No fever. Some headaches, but I get those when I'm stressed anyway. And I guess I haven't been eating much—food just doesn't appeal to me lately."
"When was your last menstrual period?"
The question catches me off guard. "Um, maybe five weeks ago? Six? I don't really track it carefully. It's always been irregular when I'm stressed."
"Any chance you could be pregnant?"
The words hit like cold water. "I… there was one time. About four weeks ago. But we were... I mean, it was just once."
"Once is all it takes," Dr. Martinez says gently. "Let's run some tests."
She draws blood, has me pee in a cup, all very routine. But now the possibility is in my head, and I can't stop the panic rising in my throat. It was just one night.
One mistake. Surely the universe isn't cruel enough to… Right?
I scroll through my phone, looking up symptoms of anemia, thyroid problems, even exotic diseases, anything but what I'm now terrified might be true.
The treatment costs for various conditions flash across my screen—hundreds for thyroid medication, thousands for certain procedures. How do people afford to be sick?
When Dr. Martinez returns, her expression is carefully neutral. "Ava, the tests came back."
"What's wrong with me? Is it serious? I looked up the symptoms and there's something called Hashimoto's that—"
"Ava." She sits down, taking my hand. "You're pregnant."
The room tilts. "That's not possible."
"The blood test is very accurate. Your HCG levels are consistent with four weeks gestation."
"Run it again." My voice cracks. "There must be a mistake. I can't be… run it again."
"Ava—"
"Please. Just run it again."
She does, because she's kind and because she can see I'm about to shatter. But the second test confirms the first. Four weeks pregnant. The timing aligns perfectly with my birthday night.
"I need..." I can't breathe properly. "This has to stay confidential. My mother can't know. No one can know."
"Of course. Doctor-patient privilege. But Ava, you'll need prenatal care. You'll need to make decisions."
"I know. I just... I need time to think."
"Are you safe? The father…"
"It's not like that. It's complicated."
Dr. Martinez squeezes my shoulder gently. "Call me if you need anything. Any questions, concerns, or if you just need to talk."
She leaves me alone in the exam room, and that's when the full weight crashes down. I'm pregnant with Tobias Murphy's baby. The man running for governor. My boss. My mentor. My best friend's father. My ex-boyfriend's father.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do.