Turns out prenatal depression is a real thing, and I definitely have it.

I’m lucky to have a great therapist on speed dial. She’s helped me come up with some coping strategies. Regular walks, time with close friends, plenty of rest. I’m taking it one day at a time, crossing my fingers and toes this mental and physical fog clears up in the supposedly magical second trimester. If there’s one thing I have heard about pregnancy and babies, it’s that no phase lasts forever.

Right now, it’s all about getting through to the other side.

The other side of what—this trimester? This pregnancy? All the unknowns in my life?—I couldn’t say.

I can say I was not at all prepared for how difficult the experience has been. Isolating, too. I’m waiting to hit that all-important 12 week mark to tell people about the baby, as that’s when the chance of miscarriage decreases significantly. Until then, I’m kind of forced to suffer in nauseated silence.

It’s Thursday, and my classes don’t wrap up until after five. I’m scheduled to have a meeting with Luke and our contractor at Rodgers’ Farms this evening—countertops, backsplashes, and plumbing fixtures all went in late last week, and I need to check on progress—but I am beyond wiped. My mood took a nosedive at lunch and never really recovered. And no matter what I munch on, the simmering roil in my stomach won’t go away.

I know if I attempt the forty minute drive out to Wadmalaw Island, especially at rush hour, I’ll fall asleep at the wheel and/or throw up all over myself.

I may not always be on time, but I never back out last minute. I feel terrible as I call our contractor and Luke to tell them I won’t be by. Gracie immediately calls back, asking if I need anything.

“Do you have any experience with mercy killings?” I say. “You know, Old Yeller style?”

I can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “Hang in there, friend. Luke’s been growing a few varieties of mint here on the farm. I’ll put it in my favorite tea blend and drop it off in the morning. Maybe it’ll help soothe your stomach.”

Just when I think I’m off the hook, my phone starts to ring again.

My gut clenches when I see Greyson Montgomery’s name on the screen.

Just my luck. No doubt he was planning to be at tonight’s meeting. And no doubt he’s going to ream me out for cancelling it.

Just like the dick he is.

A surge of anger moves through me. Yeah, he was sorta-kinda sweet when I told him about the pregnancy. The lemon tree was thoughtful, too. But he’s been the same old Greyson at work. Abrupt. Aloof. Growly.

I slide my thumb across the screen, stiffening my spine in preparation for battle.

“This is Julia,” I say.

“Hey.” His voice is gruff. “How the hell—”