“Make sure to stir the sugar really well, so that it all disintegrates,” I instruct Callie, the restaurant’s newest member of staff.

Just a few weeks at West Side BBQ and, according to the day manager, I’m already seasoned enough to be training incoming servers. Not that I mind. I’d rather be in the kitchen teaching someone how to make sweet tea than up front dealing with the rambunctious group of teenagers that just came in.

Callie wrinkles her nose. “That smells so sweet. I never thought sugar could smell bad.”

“It can when it’s this much sugar.”

In my apron pocket, my phone buzzes, making my heart leap. It’s not an unusual occurrence. Every time my phone makes a noise these days, I practically drop everything I’m doing and snatch it up, thinking it might be Jay.

After leaving Macau, we texted back and forth a few times, but I calmed things down after that. I didn’t want to seem too eager, and I knew we would be seeing each other in Monte Carlo soon. Plus, in a weird way, texting him and always looking for his next message made me sad. It seemed to make me miss him more.

“You’re doing great,” I tell Callie. “Just add some more hot water and keep stirring. I’m going to go take a quick break before we roll silverware.”

Heading through the small kitchen, I leave the restaurant through the back door and exit into the alley. There’s a chair back here for smokers, and a battered Chinese screen one of the employees put up to shield our view of the garbage cans. It’s a nice touch, even if it still smells like trash and cat pee.

I don’t smoke, but I do obsess over my phone. Despite the fact that I haven’t texted Jay in almost a week, and I know waiting around for his next message makes me unhappy, I still can’t help but check every ten minutes to see if he’s gotten in touch.

No, it doesn’t make sense, and yes, it’s kind of pathetic, but that’s life.

Perching on the plastic chair, I dig in my apron pocket, rooting around through credit card receipts and loose change in order to pull out my phone. The text is from Willow.

Girl, when are you off work? Just had the worst audition ever. I need margaritas NOW!

I smirk to myself. Willow is pursuing the right career in acting, because she’s easily the most dramatic person I’ve ever met. That woman doesn’t need a stage. Give her a bit of tequila and five minutes, and she’ll have you on the edge of your seat listening to her life story.

I send her a text back telling her to meet me at our favorite taco spot downtown in an hour, and then glance back toward the closed kitchen door. Callie hasn’t come out yet crying and shaking, like last week’s trainee did, so I can only assume that things are going somewhat well inside.

I pull up Jay’s name in my contacts. I want to text and ask if we’re still on for Monte Carlo next week, but something stops me. Maybe I’m just stubborn and it’s that hang-up about not wanting to appear too eager. Or, maybe I’m feeling weird because it’s been so long since we saw each other.

We had an amazing time in Macau, enjoying what was maybe the best time of my life. To go from that, to nothing, has me feeling upended.

Are things going to be the same between us when I get to Monte Carlo? Or will a new time and place mean everything is different? I’m trying to be realistic, to not have delusions. I know Jay is into me, just like I’m into him, but I also know there are a hundred other factors at play.

I don’t even know what he’s been doing with his time since we last saw each other. Our texts have been pretty basic, and he’s not on social media, so creeping on him online isn’t an option. If I want to get to know him better and talk to him, it looks like I’m going to have to do it the old-fashioned way and see him in person.

Eventually, I put the phone away without sending anything, and go back inside. Callie has finished making the sweet tea, though there are lumps of sugar settled in the bottom of the pitcher. Oh, well. I show her the rest of the closing duties and clock out before rushing out the door and catching the train downtown.

Since it’s halfway between lunch and dinner, it’s the perfect time to snag a table almost anywhere. Willow waits for me at one of the corner ones; her dark, bobbed hair is pinned back and a loose crop top hangs off her shoulders. She looks more like a dancer today than an actress, but that’s Willow. Tomorrow, she might look like a doctor or a librarian. It all depends on the mood she wakes up in.

“What took you so long?” she grumbles as I take a seat across from her.

I fall into my seat with a groan. “Sorry. I was training a new girl.”

“More newbies? Does that place grind them up and put them in the specials or something?”

“What a delightful image.”

I stretch my legs out under the table, flexing my calves. I’ve been working every shift I’ve been able to get my hands on—not only to save money, but also as a desperate attempt to show my parents how serious and focused I am.

“I ordered us watermelon margaritas,” Willow announces.

“You’re amazing.”

She scoffs. “Tell that to the casting director at the new theater on Eighth.”

I continue stretching out my sore muscles as she tells me about her awful audition. Willow is such a lively storyteller that she can make anything sound funny. For the first time in a while, Jay and what’s going to happen in Monte Carlo aren’t anywhere near the forefront of my mind.

Our margaritas arrive and Willow eagerly takes a sip. I go to pick mine up, but my stomach rolls at the smell of the triple sec and tequila. Putting the glass down, I push it away from me.

Willow eyes me. “Okay…are you really Lauren, or are you an alien wearing her face?”

“Ew. Don’t.” I clutch my stomach. “Where do you come up with all of these ideas?”

She shrugs. “I watch a lot of movies.”

“I just don’t think I can drink this right now.”

“Since when can you not drink tequila?”

Now, it’s my turn to shrug.

Willow folds her arms on the table and leans against them. “Have you talked to that Jay guy?”

I nervously nibble at my lip. “No.”

She sticks her tongue out. “Ridiculous! Why not?”

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to be like, ‘hey, just checking to see if we’re still on for next week.’”

She stares at me as though I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “And why not?”

“Because I want him to remind me about the invitation.”

Willow’s eyes narrow. “My intuition is tingling, and telling me there’s more to the story.”

I lean back and sigh. Maybe I am the world’s biggest idiot. “Okay. I wonder…I wonder if maybe he invited me just to make things not awkward between us as I was leaving.”

Willow sucks in a sharp breath and dramatically winces. “Were they awkward?”

“I was unhappy about going.”

“So you think he invited you just so you wouldn’t think he was some jerk who only wanted to have a fling with you?”

“Maybe.”

Willow quietly studies me. “You like him, huh?”

“A lot.”

“You don’t want a fling?”

“Do I ever want them?” I moan and drop my head into my hands. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I was so far from home; I knew it would be hard to leave…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You, and every other human being on Earth. You need to go to the poker thing. Don’t wait for a gilded invitation.”

The waiter arrives, setting a basket of chips and a cup of salsa on the table between us. One look at the red, chunky sauce and my stomach lurches.

“Oh my God,” I gasp.

Bolting from my chair, I catapult myself in the direction of the ladies’ room. I’m halfway to my knees in a stall when Willow comes in behind me. My body shakes as I vomit straight into the toilet.

After a few heaves, the nausea is gone. Hanging tight to the stall frame, I stand up on shaky legs.

Willow watches me uncertainly. “You told me you weren’t going out last night.”

“I didn’t go out last night,” I say, tearing off some toilet paper and wiping my mouth.

“Then why are you throwing up if you’re not hungover?”

A heavy moment hangs between us as we stare at each other.

Twenty minutes later, we’re rushing into my apartment building with a drugstore bag hidden in Willow’s purse. I jam my finger against the elevator button, hitting it over and over again.

“It’s so slow!” I shriek.

Willow places her hand on my shoulder. “Calm down. Just take a deep breath, okay? Chill. Once we get in there and you do the deed, we still have three minutes to wait.”

“Yeah, easy enough for you to tell me to chill,” I mutter.

The door glides open and we run down the hallway and into my apartment—and nearly into my mother.

She puts the stack of mail she’s holding down on the foyer table and studies us.

“Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” I say quickly, all-too-aware of the unopened pregnancy test in Willow’s bag.

Mom’s eyes slide from me to Willow. “You two were running like someone was chasing you.”

Willow puts her hand on her stomach and grimaces as if she’s in pain. “Mexican food for lunch. It was a bad idea.”

Mom purses her lips. “Ah. I see. Well, I need to get back to the office…” She takes her purse from the hook by the door.

Willow goes on in earnest. “I just can’t say no to those burritos.”

Mom leaves the apartment with a wave over her shoulder.

“It’s the cheese that makes them so good!” Willow shouts at the closed door.

“Okay, she’s gone. You can stop now.” I take Willow’s purse from her shoulder and yank out the pregnancy test. “We should have gotten two.”

She smirks. “In case you’re having twins?”

“Can you stop joking for one second?” I snap. “This is fucking serious, Willow! This is my life, here!”

Her face falls at my rare use of the F-bomb. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She steps forward and places her hands on my shoulders. “Listen, everything is going to be okay. One step at a time, all right?”

I nod frantically. “One step at a time…one step at a time.”

Repeating the mantra to myself, I go into the bathroom and carefully follow the instructions that come in the box. Once the stick is ready to go, I place it on the bathroom counter and open the door.

“Set a timer.”

Willow whips out her phone and sets a timer for three minutes.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I moan, going to the couch and sitting next to her.

“If you are…you know…it would be Jay’s, right?”

“Of course. You know I haven’t been with anyone else in months.”

Willow frantically braids and un-braids her hair. I wonder if she’s been doing that the whole time I was in the bathroom.

“What do you think he’ll say?”

“I don’t know.”

I stare out the massive windows of my parents’ apartment and the magnificent view of Central Park. What is Jay looking at right now? Is he in Monte Carlo yet? Or is he off traveling somewhere else before the big tournament?

His lifestyle isn’t the kind that you can easily fit a baby into. Then again, neither is mine. I still live with my parents. I’m working as a waitress, trying to get my resources together so I can move into an art space in Brooklyn and start creating. I don’t have time for a kid.

“He’s never had a family,” I find myself saying, still staring out the window.

“What?”

I turn to look at my friend. “Jay’s never had a family. He grew up in foster care.”

“That’s so sad.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that means he wants one?” she says hopefully.

It seems like a stretch to me. “We barely know each other.”

“Okay, but hypothetically, if you were pregnant, and he was happy, and wanted to be with you, would you do it?”

“In a heartbeat.”

She smacks her lips. “That’s good.”

“You just named the best possible way this all can turn out, like it’s some kind of fairy tale and happy endings are real.”

“Happy endings are real, Lauren,” she says seriously.

My stomach writhes and my heart flutters. I’m terrified, thrilled, and hopeful, all at the same time. Willow is right. Deep down, I really do believe in happy endings. I just don’t know if there’s one in the cards for Jay and me.

Taking my phone from my back pocket, I pull up his name once more. This time, I’m desperate just to talk to him, just to hear his voice. If there was ever a wrong time to call him, though, it’s now. I can’t talk about anything casual, and I certainly can’t tell him I just took a pregnancy test but don’t know the results yet.

There’s nothing to do but wait.

The alarm blares. We both jump to our feet and race to the bathroom. Willow skids to a stop in the doorway.

“Do you want me to do it?” she asks, her face pale. “Wait, no. I can’t do it. I’m too nervous. Oh my God.” She starts nervously braiding her hair again.

I take a deep breath and steel myself. “I’ll do it.”

“One line is negative and two is positive,” she reminds me.

“Okay.”

I take a few steps to the counter, and my hand shakes as I pick up the test.

There it is: two straight lines.

“It’s positive.”

“You’re positive it’s positive?”

“God, Willow, seriously?! Another joke right now?”

“I’m not joking,” she wails. “You’re sure, it’s…”

I hold the test out so she can see for herself.

“Wow. Okay.”

“Yeah.”

Despite the results, I feel oddly at peace. I was so nervous while waiting for the test to develop, and now I feel like I’m existing in this bubble where nothing can get to me. I’m pregnant. I have a baby growing inside of me. And Jay is its father.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Willow says. “Except what you want to do.”

“Yeah,” I agree dumbly, feeling dazed.

“You don’t have to tell him. Not if you don’t want to.”

I feel my lips drawing into a tight line. “It’s not that simple. I have obligations.”

“You have yourself to worry about.” Her eyes fall to my stomach. “And a baby.”

“My parents are going to flip.”

“Forget about them. You’re twenty-two. You’re in charge of your own life.”

“You’re telling that to a person who still lives with her parents and serves hot dogs for a living.”

Willow straightens her back and looks me straight in the eye. “But it’s not going to be that way forever. You can do anything you want to with your life, Lauren. You’re amazing.”

Despite her anxiety a minute ago, Willow seems to have found some reserve of strength. Seeing her with it brings out my own hardiness.

“You’re right,” I agree, taking a deep breath. “I can do anything I want to.”

“So, do you have a plan?”

I nod. “I have a plan.”