Pregnant, Broken, and Falling for the Wrong Man

“Statistics?”

I shifted on the thin plastic chair, the hospital gown crinkling under my coat.

“Junior year,” Cole said. He leaned back, his long legs stretching out into the hallway. “It’s mostly just trying to prove that patterns exist where things look like chaos. It’s comforting, in a weird way.”

“I’d prefer the patterns,” I said. “Chaos is exhausting.”

“I bet. Especially today.” He didn’t look at my stomach. He kept his eyes on the vending machine across the hall, giving me a strange sense of privacy in a very public space. “My friend is still in there. They’re arguing about whether he needs a plate in his wrist or just a heavy-duty cast. He’s a sociology major. He thinks the doctor is being ‘systemically aggressive.’”

A dry laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. “At least he’s still thinking about his major.”

“It’s a distraction,” Cole said. “Better than focusing on the bone sticking out of your arm.”

He turned his head then, his gaze steady. There was no pity in his eyes. No awkwardness. He looked at me the way he might look at a peer in a lecture hall.

“Do you need me to call anyone for you? A friend? Family?”

“No,” I said.

The word came out sharper than I intended. I waited for the flinch, the uncomfortable throat-clearing, or the inevitable ‘Are you sure?’ that usually followed a woman saying she was alone in an emergency room.

“Okay,” Cole said.

I blinked. “Just... okay?”

“You said no. I’m guessing you know your situation better than I do.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t offer a lecture on the importance of support systems. He simply accepted my boundary as a fact. It was the first time in twenty-four hours I hadn’t felt like a problem to be solved or a secret to be hidden.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“For what? Not being annoying?” He grinned, and for a second, he looked even younger. “That’s part of the stats major training. We respect the data. The data says you want to be left alone, so I leave you alone.”

A nurse stepped out of the observation ward, scanning the hallway. “Mara Ellis?”

I stood up, my muscles stiff. Cole stayed seated, but I felt his attention track me as I walked toward the nurse.

“The latest monitor strip looks good,” the nurse said, leading me back toward a small desk. “The contractions have flattened out. Dr. Aris is clearing you for discharge, but the orders are strict.”

She handed me a packet of papers.

“Bed rest for the next forty-eight hours. No heavy lifting. Absolutely no emotional stress. If you see any spotting or the tightening returns, you come back immediately. Understood?”

“I understand,” I said.

I signed the discharge form. My signature looked like a jagged heartbeat on the page.

“Do you have a ride?” the nurse asked.

“I’ve called a car,” I lied. I hadn’t opened the app yet, but I would the moment I hit the sidewalk.

“Wait here. I’ll get a wheelchair.”

“I can walk,” I insisted. “It’s just down the hall.”

“Hospital policy, honey.”

“I’m fine,” I said, my voice rising. “Really. I just want to go.”

The nurse sighed but relented, seeing the look in my eyes. “Fine. But take it slow. If you feel faint, sit on the floor. Don’t try to be a hero.”

I nodded and gathered my bag. I walked back toward the waiting area to grab my coat. As I reached the row of chairs, the world suddenly tilted.

The white linoleum floor seemed to surge upward like a wave. My vision went grainy, silver sparks dancing at the corners of my eyes. I reached out, my fingers grazing the cold, painted drywall.

I didn’t fall.

A shadow moved into my peripheral vision. Cole was there. He didn’t grab my arm. He didn’t wrap a hand around my waist or treat me like a piece of glass. He simply stood six inches away, his body a solid, unmoving barrier between me and the floor.

“Deep breath,” he said quietly. “The floor isn’t moving. Just the blood pressure.”

I leaned my shoulder against the wall, my head hanging low. “I’m okay.”

“I know,” Cole said.

He didn’t move away until he saw my knuckles turn from white back to a pale pink. He stepped back exactly one foot, giving me my space again.

“The car is four minutes away?” he asked.

“I haven’t called it yet,” I admitted.

“Let’s get you to the curb first. The air is better out there anyway.”

We walked through the sliding glass doors of the emergency entrance. The night air was crisp, smelling of damp pavement and car exhaust. It felt like a benediction after the sterilized heat of the ward.

In the parking lot, a group of guys were leaning against a beat-up SUV. One of them waved a crutch in the air.

“Yo, Cole! I’m bionic!”

Cole laughed, waving back. “That’s my cue. The sociology department is heading out.”

He turned back to me as I pulled out my phone to summon a ride. He paused, his hand going into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, neon-yellow sticky note and a pen.

He scribbled a string of numbers against his palm.

“Here,” he said, handing me the slip of paper.

I looked at the digits. “What’s this?”

“My number,” he said. “Look, I get it. You don’t want a ’person.’ But sometimes you just need a car. I live three blocks from the university. I’m usually studying, and I have a Honda that’s ugly but reliable.”

He shrugged, looking a bit sheepish.

“If you’re ever stuck, or you need to get somewhere and you don’t feel like standing on a curb for ten minutes... just text me. I won’t ask questions. I’ll just drive.”

I took the paper. The ink was still fresh, slightly smeared at the edges.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I saw your face when you looked at that discharge form,” Cole said. “You weren’t looking at the medical notes. You were looking at the ‘Home’ address like it was a war zone.”

I tightened my grip on the paper. He was too observant for a twenty-one-year-old.

“Thank you, Cole.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously. Don’t even thank me if you call. It’ll ruin my reputation as a cold, calculating stats guy.”

A black sedan pulled up to the curb, the headlights cutting through the dark.

“That’s me,” I said.

“Get some sleep, Mara,” he said.

I climbed into the back seat. The door clicked shut, sealing out the sound of the hospital. Through the window, I watched Cole walk toward his friends. He didn’t look back immediately. He waited until the sedan pulled away from the curb, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, making sure I was actually moving.

I sat in the dark of the cab, the neon-yellow paper pressed against my thigh.

I didn’t put the number into my contacts. Not yet. Instead, I smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper, staring at the jagged handwriting until we passed the city limits.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the other piece of paper—the one I’d ripped from behind the fridge.

The coordinates. The key code.

I looked at the driver’s head in the rearview mirror.

“Change of plans,” I said. “I’m not going to the hotel.”

I read out the address associated with the coordinates. It was an industrial district on the edge of the docks, a place of warehouses and silent cranes.

“You sure, lady?” the driver asked. “Not much out there this time of night.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

As the car turned toward the river, my phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from an unknown number.

I hope the drive is quiet. The offer stands. —C.

I didn’t reply. I deleted the message and cleared the log.

The car slowed as we entered a street lined with corrugated metal fences. The driver pulled up in front of a heavy steel door with a keypad glowing a faint, ghostly blue.

“This is it,” the driver said, sounding nervous.

I stepped out onto the gravel. The wind off the water was biting. I walked to the keypad and typed in the numbers from the paper.

4-9-2-1.

The lock groaned. The heavy door swung open an inch, revealing a flight of stairs leading down into the dark.

I looked back at the taxi, but it was already speeding away, its red taillights disappearing into the fog.

I took a breath, my hand resting on my stomach.

“Just us,” I whispered.

I stepped into the dark and pulled the door shut behind me.

At the bottom of the stairs, a single light flickered on, illuminating a room filled not with boxes or machinery, but with rows of filing cabinets and a single, high-end server rack humming in the corner.

And sitting in a chair in the center of the room, waiting for me, was a woman I’d only ever seen on a laptop screen.

Lexi wasn’t wearing a trench coat anymore. She was wearing a headset, and she was crying.