Becca had never felt this bad ever. Her stomach felt worse than that time she drank an entire bottle of champagne at her cousin’s wedding. At twenty-five, she should have known better than to drink on an empty stomach. The next day her stomach and head gave her a reminder that she always remembered. Apparently, now it felt the same about something she had eaten for lunch. She hoped to heaven it wasn’t the ranch dressing. She silently prayed, Let it be the carrots. I can live without those.

The sound of water rushing from the faucet alerted her to the fact that someone else was in the bathroom. Becca grimaced with the light from the stall door opening. In her haste to get to the bowl, she forgot to lock the door behind her.

“Maybe a cool paper towel on the back of your neck will help with the nausea.” Donovan’s voice had a level of tenderness that was the stark contrast of the vitriol he had given her a taste of three days prior.

“I’ll be okay,” she flushed the bowl and turned to take the towel. Instead of wrapping it around her neck, she washed her face. It felt hot and sweaty like she’d spent a couple hours in the gym and not five minutes in the bathroom. She waited for the “I told you so,” or the “we need to talk,” that she knew was coming. Maybe confronting the truth would release the tightness in her stomach.

“Look, about what happened the other night,” Donovan began.

Becca held up her hand to stop him. “You don’t have to say it. I get it. I just can’t believe you came into the women’s bathroom to tell me.”

“No, this needs to be said, so things are clear between us,” Donovan continued.

There was no way to stop him, and she knew it. It was one of the steps he had missed on Thursday. “Do it with kindness. Treat the person with just enough dignity to reduce the sting, but make sure your words are clear.” 

Becca rested her forehead in her hands and held her breath. If her air was thin, she’d at least have the dignity of not crying when Donovan tried to kindly tell her that he wanted a divorce.

“I could have handled the information better. For that I’m sorry.” There was the kindness she never wanted to hear from, of all people, Donovan Garrison.

Becca nodded to let him know she heard him but remained silent. They sat there in an awkward quietness that was probably only a couple of seconds but seemed like a year's amount of time.

His coaching broke the silence. “This is the part where you say something like, ‘I get what you’re saying, Donovan.’ Or ‘I agree with you.’”

She kept her hands on her forehead, purely out of self-preservation. If she moved, the waves might take over again. “Okay, I get what you’re saying."

A woman’s voice came through the door. “Is everything okay in there?”

“Yes, April May.” Donovan replied, “Becca’s just having a rough patch of morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness?” April May confirmed what she had heard and yelled back to what Becca imagined to be the class. “It’s morning sickness.” Her voice lowered to a normal register, “We’re glad it’s just that. All of us were worried that she had some sort of a flu virus.”

“Thank you for checking,” Donovan replied.

The hinges on the door creaked, and the sound of April May’s footsteps entering the room changed the atmosphere. “Here’s a piece of gum. It’s not as good as mint tea, but it’ll help settle her stomach a little.”

“Thank you,” Donovan passed the gum to Becca.

“You’re a good husband to come in here with her. If your mama was here with us, she’d be so proud of you.”

Stuck in the stall, Becca followed through with her only choice. She popped the piece of gum in her mouth and waited for the conversation between Donovan and April to reach a natural conclusion.

“Thank you for saying so, but I do mess up on occasion,” Donovan crossed his arms in front of him.

When Becca saw his signature long conversation with a friend posture, she began planning a way to gracefully leave while allowing the two of them to go on with their talk.

“All of us do on occasion. How we make up is what matters,” she said.

“I have a question,” Donovan said. “Do all women’s bathrooms have flowers and smell like potpourri?”

“The nice ones do,” April answered. “Why?”

“Our bathroom at the house doesn’t look like this. I kind of balked at the idea of Becca changing the decorations, but after being in here for as much as I have, I’m beginning to change my mind on the matter.”

Becca had had enough. She stood to leave. “I think I’m good now.”

April crowed, “It’s the gum. I knew it would help.”

“I appreciate it.” Becca offered a weak smile. She wanted to go home and sleep.

“That’s my signal,” Donovan began his goodbye. “It’s been good talking with you.”

Becca hadn’t made it to the door when the chef announced, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

As if Donovan’s presence wasn’t making her uncomfortable enough, he had to bring attention to the fact she was pregnant. He was ambitious and driven, but she had no idea he could be vicious too. She already heard the chatter that was sure to follow when people learned of their breakup.

“I’m sure she’ll feel better after her stomach gets used to the workload of nourishing two people.” Donovan almost sounded proud of their situation.

The chef held up a small white ceramic bowl. “This won’t be as good as the beef bourguignon, but it will help settle her stomach.”

“Look at that,” Donovan spoke to Becca, “the chef made something to help your stomach.” He didn’t give her a chance to decline the offer. Donovan placed his hand on her lower back and gently guided her back in the direction of the class.

But it didn’t make sense to her. Donovan hated cooking classes. His specialty recipe was crunchy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with barbecue chips in the middle. What had happened to her husband in the time they were apart? The answer hit Becca like a fluorescent yellow ball that should have made it into the hole in one putt. Donovan wasn’t there to break up with her; he was there for another eighteen holes.