I go through the next week in a daze. Nothing feels real. Time seems to pass too slowly. Everything moves slowly, like I’m living in a world of quicksand.

The only time that things feel real are when I’m lying on the bathroom floor, hugging the porcelain bowl of the toilet. Somehow, those moments, with the cold tile bruising my knees, my vision swimming, my hair plastered to my forehead — those are the moments that all of this becomes truly real.

I’m pregnant.

It’s Logan’s, of course. There’s no one else. Hasn’t been anyone else since Kevin, and that was over a year ago. So, unless I gestate as long as an elephant, well, it’s Logan’s. My boss.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I moved to New York City so that I could prove to everyone that I’m a mature and responsible adult. And instead, I ended up knocked up by my boss. For my next trick, I’ll be losing my life savings to a Nigerian prince email scam, and posting my Social Security number on Craigslist just for kicks. Those are about the only life choices I can think of that might top what I’ve actually done.

How am I going to tell my family? My sisters — oh, God, my sisters. They’re so perfect and together. Both of them are in relationships — Emma is already engaged — and neither of them have even considered having kids yet. Because they actually plan these things. You know, do them with intention and deliberation and care. Not me, apparently. I skipped the whole ‘falling in love’ thing and jumped right to the accidental pregnancy.

Telling my parents might even be worse than telling my sisters. My poor, sweet parents. They were so supportive in letting me come out here. They only ever wanted the best for me. Worst of all, I know they’ll support me in whatever I want to do — but it’ll break their hearts a little bit to do it. They won’t say it, but I know how disappointed they’ll be. My dad has never been able to hide his emotions. They always show up in his eyes. And I can already picture how they’ll cloud over when I tell him this — how he’ll want to lock me up in my bedroom for the rest of my life. And then maybe murder Logan.

Oh God. Logan. Of all the people I’m going to have to tell, that’s the one that scares me the most. How can I tell Logan that I’m pregnant? That he’s going to be a father? I can’t even imagine how furious he’ll be. He’s fired assistants just for having the temerity to develop a crush on him. What’s he going to do about this life-altering transgression?

One afternoon, when no one is around in the office, I google adoption agencies. There are so many of them, more than I would have realized, and an overwhelming amount of information. I start to read through the stories from happy new parents, familiarize myself with the process, figure out what I would have to do. Because adoption would make sense, wouldn’t it? I can barely take care of myself, after all. Why in the world would I think I could take care of a baby? A deserving family could give this baby everything — a real home, a real life.

But as I test out the idea, my mind completely shuts down. I close the tab before I’m even done reading, almost as if out of instinct. Then I force myself to open it back up again, to read through testimonial after testimonial. This would be the right thing to do. Look how happy these new families are.

I close the browser again. Then force myself to open it up once more.

Maybe I wouldn’t even have to tell Logan. I could quit my job, have the baby in secret, and let a nice family adopt him or her. Maybe they’d live in Westchester, somewhere with a two car garage and an in-ground pool. That would be nice. Wouldn’t it? Sure, I’d be a terrible person for not telling Logan, but if it was the best thing for the baby, that would kind of even things out. Wouldn’t it?

Ugh. No. There’s no way I can get around it — I have to tell him.

I stare at the screen for what seems like hours, playing out the possibilities in my mind. Imagining what my life would be like with a baby … and without one.

When no one is around, I fish my phone out of my purse. I pull up the phone number I’m looking for and dial, glancing furtively around to make sure there’s no one to overhear me.

“Brooklyn Obstetrics Clinic,” the bright Southern voice on the other end of the line says.

“Hi. I need to make an appointment. With ... an obstetrician, I guess. I’m pregnant,” I add hastily.

“Ma’am, could you just speak up a li’l bit?”

“Sorry — I’m at work. I need to make an appointment. I’m pregnant.” This time I say it with slightly more confidence. Because I am. I’m pregnant. This is the first time I’ve actually said the words out loud.

“Congratulations! Are you a new patient here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s see now, we have an opening with Dr. Gina Rivera. She’s real nice. You’ll like her. We can fit you in three weeks from now, does that work?”

“Yes,” I say with relief. For some reason, tears are pricking my eyes. “Yes, that will be great. Thank you.”

By the time I hang up the phone, I feel oddly light. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, but at least this feels like a practical first step. And I’m not ruling out adoption, I tell myself. Even if I decide to give the baby up, I still have to see a doctor and make sure we’re both healthy and taken care of. I have plenty of time to make a decision about what to do down the road.

Except later, in the quiet moments with my head slung over the toilet bowl of the extra-large stall at the end of the women’s washroom on the thirtieth floor of the Cartwright Diamonds building, I know that I’ve already made a decision. There’s no way I can give this baby up. It may be crazy and impractical. I may be disappointing every single person in my life. I may be the worst mother on the planet, and Logan might never speak to me again. But there’s still no way I can let go of this baby. Somehow, even after just a week, I feel a bond with it. It’s my baby. Mine and Logan’s. And even if I’m fucking everything up by keeping it, that’s what I’m going to do.

Now I just have to figure out what to do about Logan.

I’m not sure what it is, but that night, something prompts me to call my parents. As soon as my mother picks up the phone, I burst into tears.

“Blake, honey, what is it?”

“Nothing,” I sputter, as I wipe frantically at my eyes. This conversation is already not going how I’d intended it.

“Well, it must be something, sweetie. Now, tell me.”

“It’s just work,” I lie. “My boss is kind of a hard-ass.”

She tuts. “Is he giving you problems, honey? You know, you can talk to HR if it’s an issue.”

“No, it’s not like that ... It’s fine. It’s just exhausting. I guess I didn’t realize how easy I had it, working for you and Dad for so long.”

She laughs softly at that. “Well, I wouldn’t say you had it easy, but ... I’m sure your new job has a bit of a learning curve. Are you sure you’re still enjoying it? Maybe you should come home.”

“No, no, the job is good. I just had to vent.”

“Well, you know you can always vent to me.” She still doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

“My boss actually asked me to sit in on this really important meeting next week,” I tell her, hoping that’ll make her see that I’m doing okay here. Of course, I don’t mention the fact that the only reason he wants me in the meeting in the first place is because I’m pretty and blonde. Not exactly the kind of job qualifications one brags about on their resume. Or to one’s parents.

“Oh? That’s nice. By the way, have you talked to your sister lately?”

“Which one?”

“Emma. We’ve been going over plans for the wedding flowers, and they’re going to be so beautiful, Blake. Get her to show you the pictures next time.”

“Sure, I will.” I force myself to smile. “I think we’re having dinner some time next week.”

“Lovely. Maybe your father and I will take a drive up some weekend and you’ll invite us to one of these dinners with your sisters.”

“Of course! We’d love to see you.” I don’t put much stock in her suggestion — even though my parents are only a couple of hours away, it takes a hell of a special occasion to get them into the city. Dad swears his blood pressure shoots up as soon as he crosses the state line. “Is Daddy there? I’d love to talk to him for a few minutes.”

“Yes, he’s here somewhere. Hang on.” She covers the phone with her hand, but I can still hear the muffled sound of her yelling out Dad’s name.

My parents have been married for over thirty years now, and they have the kind of relationship I can only dream about having someday. They get along brilliantly — well, they’d have to, considering they live and work together, and therefore spend almost literally a hundred percent of their time together. But even after all that time, Mom still giggles — yes, giggles — when Dad gently teases her, or when he touches her cheek. It’s sweet, really, even though there’s a certain element of grossness to it, too, considering they’re my parents and all. That’s what I want for myself someday. A relationship my kids can be equally proud of and sickened by.

My kids.

The notion punches me in the gut, and the reality of my current situation hits me like a shock of cold water. I’m actually going to have a kid soon. Well, in eight months or so. And nothing about my relationship would make them proud. It’s almost embarrassing, really. Someday I’ll have to tell them that Mommy got knocked up by her boss. No. Just no. I’ll have to lie. I’ll have to tell him or her that their father was a war hero. Who died in a motorcycle accident. While delivering a lifesaving organ to a transplant patient. After rescuing a puppy out of a tree. No, a whole litter of puppies.

By the time my dad gets on the phone, I’m a sniveling mess again.

“Princess!” he says. “What’s the matter? Your mother says you’re having troubles with your boss.”

Well, that’s certainly one way of putting it. “No, it’s fine. It’s just been an exhausting week. And it’s only Wednesday.”

“You say the word, princess, and I’ll have him killed.”

That makes me giggle, although it’s a sniffly, teary-eyed giggle. “That’s okay. I think I’m good.”

“Well, the offer stands if you ever change your mind.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” He might just go ahead and kill him anyway, once he finds out about my situation. My father isn’t old-fashioned, per se. He — and my mom, too, for that matter — raised all three of us girls to be independent and strong and capable. He taught us how to drive and how to do our taxes and how to fix a leaky sink. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t bust a cap in the ass of anyone who hurt us.

“Oh, Blakey, guess who was in the other day.”

“At the shop? Who?”

“Peter Lonney.”

I sputter a laugh. “Another dozen red roses?”

“Two dozen.”

“Oh, crap. He must have screwed up big time.” Peter Lonney is one of our frequent fliers at the flower shop. He fancies himself a god of home improvement, but his actual skills are closer to Homer Simpson spice-rack. Every time he screws something up, which is often, he comes in to buy his wife a dozen red apology roses. The last time he bought two dozen was when he dropped and shattered the custom-made eight-thousand-dollar chandelier he was attempting to hang over their dining room table.

“Oh yeah. They decided to get one of those old claw foot tubs for the bathroom, but I guess he forgot to account for how heavy those suckers are. Crashed right through the bathroom floor and into the kitchen below.”

“Oh my God. I’m surprised he didn’t buy more than two dozen.”

“Well, I suppose they’re short on places to put them right now.”

Dad and I both giggle at poor Peter’s misfortunes. It feels so comfortable and familiar to be laughing with him that soon, tears are pricking my eyes again.

“How’s the new intern working out?” I ask, to distract myself. That had been part of the arrangement when I decided to come to New York. Since Mom and Dad needed the help at the shop, they decided to take on an intern from the floral design program at the local college. The deal was that if I decided to come home, I could have my old job back. In six months, if I was still happy here in the city, they’d hire the intern permanently.

“Oh, she’s no Blake, let’s put it that way,” Dad says, after a breath.

“But she’s working out okay, right? It’s not too much pressure on you guys?”

“Oh, no, no. We’re fine. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

I should have known I wouldn’t get a straight answer out of my dad. I should have asked Mom before she got off the phone. Dad wouldn’t let on if his hair was on fire, I think with a smile.

“I miss you, Dad.”

On the other end of the line, my dad is quiet for a beat. Then he says, “I miss you, too, sweetie.” I hear the hitch in his voice when he says it, that low grumble that comes from saying the kinds of things he isn’t too used to saying.

“Mom says you might come up for a visit soon,” I say.

“Well, you know what? We just might.”

“I’d like that.”

“Me, too. I’ll tell you what, we’ll talk real soon and make a plan, okay?”

“Okay.” I smile. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you too, Blakey.”

I collapse backwards onto my bed, letting the tears fall freely from my eyes now. I’ve been so lucky to grow up with a father who loves me so ferociously. I want my baby to have that, too. I want him or her to have a father who’s going to teach them to ride a bike, who’s going to take them to see their first PG-13 movie, who’s going to hide a tear when they come down the staircase, all dressed up for prom. A father who’s going to protect them and teach them and help them grow up.

Can Logan be that man? That father? I have no idea. But I owe it to him — and to our baby — to give him the option.

Except, right now it feels like I’d rather go head to head with the Skin Wearer than admit to Logan what’s happened.