My spine straightens, tension radiating through my body. What? I squint at him. I’m ready to make my excuses. My drink is nearly finished and I’m about done with this day.
Kevin looks back at his phone and nudges Conor next to him, showing him the screen. Conor’s eyes widen before he too glances at me like I’ve just announced I’m running for Prime Minister.
Enough of this. “What?” I ask sharply.
Kevin laughs, his eyes darkening with glee before he meaningfully glances at my stomach.
“You’ve been keeping that quiet.”
I freeze. What?
I blink, my mouth dropping open. Conor passes the phone onto Lee until there’s a circle of guys staring at me like I’ve just taken all my clothes off in the middle of the street.
“Jackson Harper, Rosie? How the hell didyoupull that off?” Lee gapes at me.
My stomach drops. “Give me that.” I grab the phone out of his limp hand as snickers erupt around me.
It’s an article.
JACKSON HARPER EXPECTING BABY WITH INFLUENCER CLEO TAYLOR’S SISTER, ROSALIE
What? The word reverberates around my skull as my fingers tremble. I click on the article but what I see nearly makes me drop the phone.
I shove it and my empty glass into Lee’s hands before stumbling away.
“Wait Rosie, where did you even meet him?”
“Can you get me an autograph?”
I don’t hear them as I fumble in my bag for my phone. Tugging it free, I almost collapse against a wall as I click on the video.
“Get ready with me as I tell you the story about how my sister Rosie got knocked up by Jackson Harper. Yeah, that one…”
Cleo.
Cleoposted this? I can barely concentrate on the words coming out of her mouth, barely recognizing the background of my parents bathroom as she goes through a ten step makeup routine while she tellsmillionsof people about my baby.
I barely have time to hunch over before I vomit on the street. I’ve hardly thrown up now that I’m halfway through my second trimester, so I’ve almost forgotten the feeling. People dart away from me making disgusted noises and my throat convulses as I heave.
Is this what rock bottom feels like? I wipe my mouth with shaking hands and push myself to stand.
I need to get home.
I stumble toward the road, hailing a black cab. I fumble with the handle before sliding into the car, the cracked windows sending a frosty breeze across my shaking fingers as I grip my phone in my hand.
“Where to, love?” the driver asks, his cockney accent thick.
I rattle off my address, taking a deep breath to quell the nausea swirling in my stomach.
I feel the driver glance at me, but I rest my forehead on the window trying to cool my heated blood.
It’s okay, I just need to get home.
The street lights blur behind my vision and my eyes itch. Stupid contacts. I wish I was wearing my glasses.
With shaking hands, I bring my phone back up and search the internet for Jackson’s name.
Why would she do this?
