I lean against the side of the toilet. Salty droplets soak my sweatshirt as I wait to see if my stomach has settled. When a minute passes without any further convulsions, I slowly climb to my feet and make my way to the sink.

My fingers curl around the porcelain edges, holding on for dear life. I stopped stocking anything but soap and paper towels when I realized that anything nice I placed in here, including plastic flowers and decorative air fresheners, walked out with customers.

That means I never got around to storing any cups in here, a decision I’m beginning to seriously regret. As soon as I have the energy, I’m bringing some in. And if I have to chain them to the counter like the bank does with their pens, well then, so be it.

Using my hand as a cup, I bring water to my mouth, swishing it around a few times before spitting it out and repeating the process. My muscles feel like they’re made out of jello. Every single movement takes every ounce of strength and concentration I possess.

I barely recognize my reflection. I look like someone who hasn’t had a single easy day in their entire life. Worn out and sick of life. That’s what happens when you can’t sleep and vomit up everything you eat.

The only thing I want to do right now is sink to the floor and sleep for twelve hours straight, but that’s not an option. Dealing with Paul is my first – and only – priority.

I expect to find him sitting where I’d left him. Instead he’s standing just outside the bathroom door, his expression etched with harrowed concern.

“Are you okay?” He wraps an arm around my waist. My legs are still pretty shaky, so I don’t reject his support.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, too worn out and feeling way too miserable to inject any warmth into my voice. “It’s just an upset stomach.”

“Still—” Paul helps me sit. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

Stomach churning, I twist my fingers together and wish I had something to do with my hands: a fidget spinner, a piece of napkin to tear, a pen to doodle with. Since wishing isn’t enough to magically conjure any of these items out of thin air, I settle for picking at my nail polish.

The only time I’ve ever felt pulled in two different directions like this was in the moments leading up to when I signed my mortgage for the Blind Pig. I’d been elated that, finally, I was going to have the business I’d always dreamed of, scared of the amount of work needed to get the building ready for customers, and terrified at the amount of money involved.

Now I’m delighted to see Paul. Since I left him at the entrance of the Philistine Hotel, not a single day has gone by when I didn’t desperately want to see him. On the other hand, I don’t even know how to begin to break my news to him – and I can’t bear to think about what’s at stake.

A headache blossoms behind my brow. How could I have been so stupid and let myself get into this position?

Granted, I’m not the only one to blame, but still…

There are so many ways to break the news to him. I take a deep breath and go for the quickest. The only thing trying to soften the blow or talking around the issue accomplishes is making me even more nervous.

I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. “I’m pregnant.”

Paul’s eyes slowly widen as the words sink in. “You’re sure?”

“Pretty damn positive,” I confirm. No pun intended.

“What did the doctor say?”

“I haven’t visited one, though I did call and make an appointment. The soonest they can get me in is in about nine days, but they’ll call if there’s a cancelation. I did take a pregnancy test. And then two more. All three reported the exact same thing. Like it or not, you knocked me up.”

The corners of Paul’s mouth twitch.

Suddenly he throws his head back and roars with laughter. The spell doesn’t break. His jaw grimaces as he tries – unsuccessfully – to hold back his mirth.

What the …

For a split second, I wonder if I fell down the same rabbit hole as Alice and landed in a bizarre topsy-turvy alternate universe. I expected Paul to yell at me, to fling accusations, to storm out of the Blind Pig and refuse to ever respond to any of my messages again. To strike me out of his life.

Once or twice, when I let myself pretend that everything would turn out okay, I imagined he’d be pleased with the news.

But not once have I pictured him laughing at me.

Clutching his stomach, he starts to tip sideways before correcting himself.

I scowl at him. “I don’t think this is a laughing matter.”

Paul wipes his eyes. “It isn’t,” he agrees even as he continues to laugh away.

Irritated, I kick out, my sneakered toe connecting firmly with his calf.

Yelping, he pushes the chair back, moving himself out of range.

“Sorry,” he gasps. “It’s just—” He struggles to compose himself. “I didn’t tell you why I was in Chicago back in October.”

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “You said business brought you here.”

He nods. “I lied, sort of.”

“Mmm hmm.”

I wait for him to continue.

“I was here to meet with the woman who’d agreed to serve as a surrogate for my baby.”