"Mommy," the girl said.
As the little girl wrapped her arms around her neck, Emmy stared deep into her daughter's eyes—and then realized, to her horror, that she couldn't breathe.
Emmy sucked in air, trying to get her lungs in working order. Why wasn't she breathing? Was her child choking her? No, wait, that wasn't possible. She was still pregnant. Then what about the baby inside her? If she couldn't breathe now, then maybe there was something wrong with her baby. As she began to panic, her eyes flew open.
And she realized that she was in bed with a sheet wrapped around her throat like shed snakeskin. Somewhere in the distance, her alarm blared. She blinked, then laid eyes on her clock. Holy shit, she was going to be late for work. There were croissants to be made, cakes to be baked, and frosting to be mixed. The last time she'd left all of the morning preparations to Donavon, the early morning cook in training, he'd gotten the salt and sugar mixed up and she'd received a hysterical call from her sales clerk at eight a.m.
She climbed out of bed, though fell may have been a more appropriate term, and scrambled into the bathroom. After she managed to wrestle her blond hair into a ponytail—her hair had always been thicker than the ill-tasting custard Donavon had prepared—she put on her work uniform and rushed out the door as fast as her legs could carry her. She scrambled into the car and then drove to work, testing the limits of the engine.
By the time she reached the bakery, Donavon's car was already parked outside.
"Shit," she said, wondering how many éclairs he'd filled with salty custard that quite honestly tasted like cum.
She rushed inside and inhaled the sweet aroma of baking bread that she'd loved since childhood. Unfortunately, that was the moment when a wave of nausea crashed over her, stopping her in her tracks. Puke crawled up her throat just as twenty-four-year-old Donavon came out of the kitchen and smiled.
"Emmy, it's so good you're—"
"Got to go," she cried.
"Here."
Panicked, Emmy sprinted to the bathroom. She rushed into the back stall and threw herself onto the floor by the toilet. Vomit oozed up her throat, and soon a stream of sour stomach acid came pouring from her lips and into the basin.
She heaved until she was certain she was going to puke up her spleen, diaphragm, and kidney. Moments passed, and the nausea faded. Instead of getting up, though, she lay wrapped around the toilet, her heart aching. The smell of fresh-baked bread still snuck into the bathroom, torturing her instead of lulling her into a state of bliss.
Just when she was getting used to the whole I'm-having-a-baby thing, this happened. Her bottom lip trembled as she wrapped her arms around her legs.
I won't let this get to me.
I won't let this get to me.
I won't let this get to me.
Trembling from head to foot, she seized the bathroom wall and struggled to her feet. As she regained her balance, she took a shaky breath and stumbled out of the stall. After she disinfected her hands enough times that she was certain the skin on her hand was going to fleck off, she wobbled out of the bathroom and entered the kitchen. Donavon, who looked like he'd jump face-first into a vat of flour, stared at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"You okay?" he asked.
No, she thought, even as she picked up a bowl of sugar.
****
By the time twelve o'clock rolled around, Emmy had no energy. Before she became pregnant, getting up at four o'clock in the morning hadn't been all that painful. Okay, it had been a little painful, but not nearly as painful as this. Right now, she felt as though her legs were as limp as the pastry dough she was kneading.
With a sigh, she slapped her hand against the blob of dough, causing an upheaval of flour all around her. Her arm throbbed, and she let out a sigh. Oh, damn it all to hell, she needed a break. The pastry could wait for five seconds. It wasn't like it was going to evaporate into thin air. Grousing, she washed her hands and headed for the door. Unfortunately, that was when she heard the sound of her coworkers talking outside.
"I heard that Emmy is knocked up," Annabelle said. "I heard she's been puking a lot."
"Oh, please, who'd want to touch her?" her other worker, Tina, asked. "I bet you anything it's just the stomach flu."
Emmy's fists clenched at her sides.
"I suppose you're right about that." Annabelle chuckled. "But maybe the guy was really desperate or drunk."
The words stung.
She opened the door. "Maybe she has a contagious parasite living in her lower intestines."
"Gross," Tina said. "Do you really think—"
The girls turned around and froze.
"So…"
Eyes widened in horror.
"I'm so sorry," Tina said.