Greyson: I’ll be downtown

Greyson: I can come after

Greyson: You sure you’re ok?

Julia: 8:30 works.

I know something’s up because Julia never gave me a straight answer to my “are you okay” question. I dwell on it more than I should throughout the afternoon.

Is she going to quit? Have I finally pushed her over the edge? I thought we worked decently well together, despite disagreeing on almost everything.

Have we given each other an STD? Not likely, considering we always use condoms. But I guess there’s always a chance.

Whatever’s going on, I need to know what it is, and I need to know that Julia’s okay.

I’m running late from the office—I’m never late to work events, but personal stuff is a different story—and I’m at her door at quarter after nine.

Julia lives on a cute little lane not far from my condo on South Adger’s Wharf. Her place is an old carriage house set above a double garage.

I knock on Julia’s door with the outside of my fist. I slide my phone back into my pocket, taking care not to crush the pack of cigarettes I have in there too.

I’m about to knock again when the door opens. Julia glances up at me. She’s channeling Joni Mitchell tonight in a straw hat and flared jeans with holes in the knees.

She looks drawn. Eyes swollen and a little red, like she’s been crying.

My heart dips. I put my hand on the door, opening it wider as I take a step toward her.

“What is it?” I ask, eyes locked on hers.

Her eyes move to my chest. Move back up to my face. She tilts her head. “Come in. We need to talk.”

I close the door behind me, heart thumping as I follow Julia inside.

The place is tiny but impeccably decorated. There’s a galley kitchen to my left and a living room to the right.

Julia nods at the sofa in the living room. “Please, have a seat.”

Sinking into her cushy velvet sofa, I cross my ankle over my knee and hold my hand there. Julia takes a seat in the chair across from me, setting a glass bottle—Topo Chico, Mexican Sparkling Water, the label reads—on the glass coffee table between us.

Something about the water makes my gut prickle with ice. Julia strikes me as the type to finish the day with something stronger.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, right on cue. “I haven’t been with anyone besides you, so…yeah. Baby’s yours.”

My heart trips to a stop.

For a second my vision contracts.

I’m a partner at a venture capital firm. Before that, I worked in private equity and investment banking. I know stress. Usually I can growl my way through it.

But this? I don’t know where the hell to begin with this.

I am careful. I don’t make mistakes often. When I do, though—

They’re big. Case in point.

How could I be so careless? How could I knock up the employee I should’ve avoided but slept with instead?