"Statistically, one of these tests has to be lying... right? RIGHT?!"
Pregnancy.
A joyous celebration. A beautiful chapter in life unfolding just as it should. A twist of fate. A miracle. A step forward in a new direction.
Yeah… for other people.
But for me—Elio Conti, emotionally wrecked schoolteacher, professional overthinker, part-time drama queen—those words were a nightmare. A worst-case scenario I hadn't even thought to have a plan for.
"How... how did I..." My voice faltered, trembling like a Wi-Fi signal during a thunderstorm as I stared at the test in my trembling hands.
Two soft, delicate, beautiful pink lines. So innocent. So pastel. So aesthetically pleasing. So... fucking disastrous.
It was like the universe dipped a knife in glitter and stabbed me in the gut with a smile.
This shouldn't have happened.
I felt dizzy. I clutched the edge of the bathroom sink like a Victorian lady about to faint in her corset. A wave of full-blown panic crawled up my spine like a spider on caffeine.
This was impossible. IMPOSSIBLE.
FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE!
I took the pills. The damn suppressants. Religiously. Like a good little secondary-gender citizen trying to avoid exactly this situation. I even remembered that the very handsome man I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER THE FACE OF—used protection! He used a condom! I saw it. I heard the crinkle. I even made a comment about how it smelled like strawberries!
So HOW THE ACTUAL HELL—
I glanced down at the floor. Ten—yes, TEN—test kits surrounded me like I was summoning a fertility demon in a very modern pagan ritual. And every single one of them said the same thing.
Two. Pink. Lines.
"Hahahahahahahahahaha..." I started laughing. Full-blown maniacal laughter that could either land me in therapy or get me cast in a horror movie. "Maybe I should buy more test kits and test again. Just to be really sure. Like, what if I bought a different brand? What if these are expired? What if the manufacturer had a glitch day?!"
I was spiraling. Fast.
My bathroom mirror reflected the image of a sleep-deprived schoolteacher wearing last year's hoodie, sitting on the bathroom floor like a dramatic soap opera lead.
"This is fine," I muttered. "This is all... totally fine."
Until...it wasn't.
Because no matter how many times I tested, how many ways I held the stick under the light, tilted it, shook it, or blinked real hard like a Disney princess hoping her wish wouldn't come true—there was no denying it.
I was pregnant.
Elio Conti: 25 years old. A mildly respected high school teacher. Emotionally repressed romantic. And now—knocked up.
Honestly, if my life were a movie, this would be the part where the camera zooms out in slow motion while I scream into the void in a full-blown existential crisis.
Sigh...
It all started two weeks ago. The Day of Doom. The dinner that changed everything.
We were at the family dining table, passing around lasagna like it was just another wholesome Sunday evening. And then—
"We decided to get married. I hope you'll bless us," Lucia said, smiling sweetly, like some Disney princess casually announcing her royal engagement.
". . ."
"What...?" I choked on my water so hard I'm pretty sure I briefly flatlined. It went down the wrong pipe, came back up the wrong pipe, and for five seconds I genuinely ascended to the astral plane. Even Mom and Dad froze, mouths open like two buffering video screens.
"Since when?" I rasped, feeling more betrayed than Caesar on the Ides of March.
"Lucia and I have been seeing each other for a while now," Rocco added, as if that made it better. "We didn't want to say anything until it was serious."
". . ."
"Hahah...how thoughtful of you," I deadpanned, plastering a smile on my face. "Congratulations... I guess."
Mom and Dad, of course, were thrilled. "As long as our children are happy," they said with teary eyes and hearts full of fluff.
But me? My heart cracked like overcooked crème brûlée.
You see, Rocco wasn't just my best friend. He was my first crush. My unrequited love of twelve years. The man I once wrote cheesy fruit-themed poetry for. (Yes. Fruit. Don't ask.)
Those anonymous letters Rocco used to get? The gifts? The chocolates are in his locker?
Yeah. That was me.
Me, hiding behind the "best friend" label like it was a bulletproof vest against heartbreak.
And now he was marrying my sister?
MY. SISTER.
They'd been dating behind my back like some twisted Netflix plot twist no one subscribed to.
HOW DARE THEY!
And yet that night, I smiled like a good brother. Nodded like a supportive friend. Ate my lasagna with all the grace of a man being slowly stabbed by a fork.
Then I went back to my room and cried.
A lot.
Like, empty-the-tissue-box, hold-a-pillow-to-my-face-to-scream kind of crying. The dramatic, Oscar-worthy type where I lay on the bed at 2 a.m. whispering, "Betrayal... sweet, carb-loaded betrayal..."
"Sniff… I hope that lasagna gives them heartburn…"
"... I hope they choke on their wedding cake."
Forgetting a long-time first love isn't as easy as rom-coms make it seem. There were no glittery makeover montages or sassy best friends dragging me out to parties. No. While my sister was busy kissing my crush and planning wedding hashtags, I was hitting up local bars like some sad second lead from a tragic webnovel.
I drank. I sobbed. I might've ugly-cried into a bowl of peanuts while whispering, "He used to love spicy chips…" (He didn't. That was me. I was projecting.)
And then—because the universe is nothing if not a chaotic little goblin—I went into heat.
Yup. Bonus round.
A completely unscheduled, emotionally-charged, drunken heat.
But don't worry. I was responsible. I took my suppressants.
...At least, I think I did.
Okay, no, I definitely did. Probably. Maybe.
Listen, it's all a blur.
All I remember is that I stumbled into a private lounge, babbled something about heartbreak and fruit metaphors, and then—boom.
There he was.
A stranger. Tall. Gorgeous. Smelled like expensive cologne and reckless decisions. He had this voice—that kind of voice. Deep. Smooth. Dangerous. I don't remember his name. I barely remember his face.
But I do remember that the night was...
satisfying~~
Like, toes-curling, back-arching, scream-into-the-pillow satisfying. The kind of night you think about during particularly boring faculty meetings.
And now?
Now I'm sitting in my bathroom, staring at two pink lines like they just personally betrayed me, mocking me and shouting, "Surprise, bitch!"
Great. Just great.
Elio Conti: certified disaster. And now? Pregnant by a hot stranger I don't remember.
"Totally doomed!"