The pregnancy test sits in my purse like a loaded gun. I've taken four of them in the past two days, each one showing those two pink lines with increasing clarity, as if the universe is trying to make absolutely certain I can't deny what's happening. The first one, I convinced myself was a fluke. The second, maybe a faulty batch. By the third, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it steady. The fourth one I took this morning, just before I decided to drive to Ethan's office, because I needed to be absolutely, completely, one-hundred-percent sure before I turned both of our lives upside down. All four tests are wrapped in tissue paper at the bottom of my bag, evidence of the secret I've been carrying for forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours of feeling like I'm walking through a dream, where everything looks the same but nothing feels real anymore. I'm pregnant. The words still don't feel real, even as I repeat them in my head for the thousandth time. I'm twenty-eight years old, I have a stable job as a graphic designer, and Ethan and I have been together for three years. We've talked about marriage, about a future, about "someday" having kids. But someday was supposed to be someday, not today, not now, not when we're still figuring out whether to move in together or keep our separate apartments for another year. The elevator in Ethan's building dings, and my stomach lurches. Morning sickness has been hitting me in waves since yesterday, though I'm not sure if it's the pregnancy or pure anxiety. Maybe both. The doors slide open to reveal the sleek, modern lobby of Whitmore & Associates, where Ethan works as a junior partner in commercial real estate development. I've been here dozens of times, but today everything feels different. The receptionist, Melissa, looks up and gives me her usual warm smile. "Maya! Here to surprise Ethan?" She glances at her computer screen, and something flickers across her face. "Oh, you know about the presentation, right?" My mind goes blank. "Presentation?" "The Riverside Project pitch? It started about ten minutes ago in the main conference room." Melissa's smile falters slightly. "I thought... I mean, Ethan's been preparing for this for weeks. I assumed you knew." Of course. The Riverside Project. Ethan has mentioned it, probably more than mentioned it, but the past few days have been such a blur that I honestly can't remember the details. Something about a major waterfront development, a career-defining opportunity, a chance to prove himself to the senior partners. "Right," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. "Of course. I just... thought I'd stop by anyway." Melissa's expression softens with sympathy, and I realize how pathetic I must look. The girlfriend who doesn't even know about her boyfriend's biggest career moment. But she doesn't know that I've been in a fugue state since I peed on that first stick and watched my entire future rearrange itself. "He should be done in about an hour," Melissa offers. "You're welcome to wait in his office if you'd like." I nod, not trusting my voice, and head down the familiar hallway to Ethan's office. It's a corner space, small but with windows, a sign of his rising status in the firm. I sink into the leather chair across from his desk and finally let myself breathe. An hour. I can wait an hour. I've already waited forty-eight hours; what's sixty more minutes? Except I can't wait. The knowledge is burning inside me, demanding to be shared, to be real, to be something that exists between us instead of just inside me. I pull out my phone and type out a text: "I'm here at your office. I know you're in the presentation. I need to talk to you about something important. It can't wait." I stare at the message for a full minute before deleting it. Too desperate. Too dramatic. He's in the middle of a career-defining pitch, and I'm going to pull him out with a cryptic emergency text? That's not fair. But is it fair that I'm sitting here, alone, with the biggest news of my life, and he doesn't even know I'm here? I try again: "At your office. Come find me when you're done. Love you." Better. Casual. Not desperate. I hit send. Twenty minutes pass. No response. Of course not—he's in a presentation. His phone is probably silenced, tucked away in his pocket or left on his desk. I'm being ridiculous. I get up and pace the small office, looking at the framed photos on his desk. There's one of us from last summer, hiking in the Rockies, both of us windswept and grinning. There's one of his family, his parents and his younger sister, all of them with the same dark hair and strong jawline. And there's one of Ethan shaking hands with one of the senior partners, probably from when he made junior partner two years ago. Where will the new photos go? Will there be room on this desk for ultrasound pictures? For a frame with a tiny baby face? My phone buzzes, and I practically lunge for it. Not Ethan. My best friend, Claire: "Did you tell him yet?" Claire is the only person who knows. I took the third test at her apartment, unable to face it alone anymore. She held my hand while we waited for the results, and then she held me while I cried, though I still can't articulate whether they were happy tears or terrified tears or some combination of both. I type back: "At his office now. He's in a meeting." Three dots appear immediately. "Want me to come?" "No. I need to do this alone. I think." "You've got this, babe. He loves you. This is going to be okay." I want to believe her. I do believe her, mostly. Ethan and I are solid. We're good together. We've weathered disagreements and stress and the normal ups and downs of a three-year relationship. This is just... a really big up. Or down. Or sideways. A really big something. Another fifteen minutes crawl by. I'm scrolling mindlessly through my phone, looking at nothing, when the door opens. Ethan walks in, and my heart does its familiar flip. He's in his navy suit, the one that makes his eyes look impossibly blue, his dark hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it, which he always does when he's nervous or concentrating. He's looking at his phone, scrolling through something with a slight frown. "Hey," I say, standing up too quickly. He glances up, and his expression shifts to surprise. "Maya! What are you doing here?" He crosses the room and gives me a quick kiss, but his eyes are already drifting back to his phone. "Did you get my text about dinner? I might have to reschedule—the presentation went long, and now Marcus wants to debrief, and—" "Ethan," I interrupt. "I need to talk to you." "Sure, yeah, of course." But he's still looking at his phone, thumbs moving across the screen. "Just give me one second. Marcus is asking about the revised budget projections, and I need to—" "Ethan." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. He looks up, finally, really looks at me. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" This is it. This is the moment. I've rehearsed this a hundred different ways in my head over the past two days. Romantic ways, with candles and wine—well, wine for him. Funny ways, with the pregnancy test in a gift box. Straightforward ways, just saying the words plain and simple. But now, standing here in his office with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and his phone still glowing in his hand and the sound of people talking in the hallway outside, none of my rehearsals seem right. "I'm pregnant," I say.