EVELYN
The nausea had crawled up my throat since the first stretch of morning light seeped through the curtains. I had been curled up in Mike’s bed for almost an hour, trying to convince myself it was maybe something I ate, but deep down I knew better. There was a terrifying and emotional hurricane brewing inside me. The kind only pregnancy could cause. The smell of his cologne on the pillow made me want to cry and throw up at the same time.
I turned onto my side, clutching my belly, hoping and praying that the feeling would pass. But it didn’t. It only heightened.
I gasped in serious pain.
Mike stood at the doorway, dressed in the same joggers he had slept in, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sorry dear, please hang on. I’ll give the family doctor a call now,” he said, already halfway out of the room. His voice was soft but edged with worry, the kind of worry that doesn’t ask too many questions, just acts.
That simple gesture made something tighten in my chest he cared.
