I post the announcement at exactly midnight on April first. "After five beautiful years, Michael and I have decided to go our separate ways. Sometimes love isn't enough. Wishing him all the best." My finger hovers over the share button for only a second before I press it. The post goes live on all my social media accounts simultaneously. I'm giggling into my wine glass, imagining Michael's face when he wakes up to three hundred concerned messages. We've been pranking each other every April Fools' Day since we started dating. Last year, he convinced me my car had been towed. The year before, I told him I was pregnant. This year, I'm going nuclear. My phone buzzes within minutes. *ELENA WHAT THE HELL* I grin. Michael's awake. *April Fools, baby! Got you good this time.* Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. *We need to talk. Call me.* The wine turns sour in my mouth. That's not the response I expected. Where's the laughing emoji? Where's the "you got me" message? I dial his number. He answers on the first ring. "Elena." "Okay, you're freaking me out. You know it's a joke, right? April Fools?" Silence stretches between us like a chasm. "Michael?" "I know what day it is." His voice sounds hollow. Distant. "But Elena, I... Christ, there's no good way to say this." My hand starts trembling. "Say what?" "I've been seeing someone. For six months now. I was going to tell you this weekend, but since you posted that—maybe it's a sign. Maybe we should actually end this." The phone slips from my fingers, clattering onto my kitchen counter. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I grab the phone again. "This is a counter-prank. Right? You're getting me back?" "I'm sorry, Elena. I really am. The papers are already drawn up. I'll email them to you tomorrow." He hangs up. I stare at my phone, at the post that's now climbing toward a thousand likes, at the comments flooding in with heart emojis and supportive messages about my "brave decision." My joke just ended my actual relationship. Or maybe my relationship was already over, and I was too stupid to notice. I delete the post with shaking fingers, but it's too late. Screenshots live forever. Within an hour, I've got texts from everyone I know. My mother calls four times. I ignore all of it, pour another glass of wine, and seriously consider never leaving my apartment again. Then my phone rings with a number I haven't seen in three years. Ryan. My ex from college. The one who moved to Seattle for a job opportunity and ghosted me instead of trying long distance. I shouldn't answer. I really, really shouldn't. I answer. "Elena? Hey, I... I saw your post. Before you deleted it." His voice is exactly how I remember it—warm, familiar, like slipping into an old sweater. "I know this is probably weird, me calling after all this time, but I've been thinking about you a lot lately. About us. And when I saw that you were single again, I thought maybe—" "Maybe what?" My voice comes out sharper than intended. "Maybe you'd swoop in while I'm vulnerable?" "No! God, no. I mean..." He exhales. "I made a mistake, Elena. Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life. I've wanted to reach out for years, but you were with Michael, and I respected that. But now..." "Now I'm freshly dumped, so I'm desperate enough to consider you again?" "That's not what I meant." I end the call and immediately block his number. The wine bottle is empty. I consider opening another one, but my stomach lurches unexpectedly. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm vomiting into the toilet, my body rejecting the alcohol and probably everything else about this nightmare evening. When I finally sit back against the cool tile wall, wiping my mouth, the truth I've been avoiding for two weeks crashes over me. The nausea isn't from the wine. I'm pregnant. Not with Michael's baby—we haven't had sex in two months, though I didn't realize that was a red flag until tonight. No, I'm pregnant from that one incredible, impossible night six weeks ago. The charity gala where I drank too much champagne and ended up in the penthouse suite of a man whose last name I barely caught. Damian something. Dark eyes, darker suit, hands that knew exactly how to make me forget I was in a failing relationship. He was gone when I woke up. No note. No number. Just rumpled sheets and the faint smell of his cologne. I took the morning-after pill. I did everything right. Apparently, everything right still equals pregnant. My phone buzzes again. Another unfamiliar number. Against my better judgment, I check the message. *Elena, it's James. I heard about you and Michael. I'm in town next week. Coffee?* James. My ex from high school. The one who broke up with me before college because he "needed to focus on his future." What is happening? Are all my exes crawling out of the woodwork tonight? I don't respond. Instead, I pull up the pharmacy app and order three pregnancy tests for same-day delivery. Then I do what any rational person would do after their life implodes in the span of two hours. I laugh. I laugh until I'm crying, sitting on my bathroom floor at two in the morning, while my fake divorce announcement makes real my actual breakup, and somewhere in this city, a mysterious billionaire has no idea he's about to become a father. The universe has a sick sense of humor. And apparently, so do I.