Nine Months After the Lights Went Out

Chapter Two: The Morning After

His hands are everywhere.

I can't think straight. Can't remember why this is a terrible idea. All I know is James tastes like mint and something darker, and his fingers are tracing patterns on my skin that make my breath catch.

"Kennedy." My name sounds different in his mouth. Reverent. Like a prayer.

"I've never done this before."

"We don't have to…."

"No." I cut him off, my hand sliding down his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath expensive fabric. "I want to. I've just never..." I fumble for words. "I've never wanted anyone like this."

His breath hitches when my fingers find his belt. "Are you sure?"

I answer by kissing him again, harder this time. He groans against my mouth, and suddenly we're moving. His jacket hits the floor. My dress slides up my thighs. His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, and I can feel how much he wants this too.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers against my neck.

"Don't you dare."

The emergency lighting casts everything in shades of crimson. His skin. My hands. The way we fit together like we've done this a thousand times before instead of just once, suspended in darkness, two strangers choosing recklessness over reason.

I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. Instead, I feel alive for the first time in years.

Time blurs. His touch. My gasps. The way he says my name, like it matters. Like I matter.

Not Kennedy the waitress. Not Kennedy the broke. Just Kennedy.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathes, and I believe him because I can't see myself. Can only feel the way he holds me like I'm precious.

A sharp metallic clang echoes from outside.

We freeze.

"Hello?" A voice calls, muffled but clear. "Is anyone in there? We're working to get you out. Hold tight!"

Reality crashes back. I scramble away from James, my hands shaking as I try to straighten my dress. He's already reaching for his jacket, running fingers through his hair. In the red light, I catch his expression. Dazed.

Almost disappointed.

"Hey, listen." He moves closer, voice urgent. "I don't want this to end here."

My heart pounds for entirely different reasons now. "James…."

"Here." He pulls something from his jacket pocket. A business card. He presses it into my palm, his fingers lingering on mine. "Call me.

Please. I want to see you again. Really see you. In actual light."

I clutch the card like a lifeline. "I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

The elevator shudders. Groans. Light floods in as the doors finally pry apart, harsh and blinding after so long in darkness. I squint against it, barely registering the rescue workers rushing toward us.

"Ma'am, are you hurt?" A woman in a safety vest grabs my arm, guiding me forward.

"I'm fine, I just…."

Someone else takes my other arm. They're moving me quickly, efficiently, and I glance back for James but there are too many people between us now. I catch a glimpse of him, surrounded by his own team of workers, his eyes searching the crowd.

For me.

"Watch your step," the woman says, helping me over the elevator threshold.

My foot catches. I stumble. The business card slips from my fingers, fluttering down into the gap between the elevator and the floor.

"No!" I lurch forward, but hands hold me back.

"Careful, ma'am. We've got you."

"But I dropped…." I crane my neck, trying to see, but they're already moving me down the hallway, away from the elevator, away from any chance of retrieving it.

Gone.

Three days later, I'm still thinking about him.

I know I shouldn't be. It was one night. A few hours in the dark with a stranger named James who probably has a girlfriend. A wife. A whole life I know nothing about.

But I can't stop replaying it. His laugh. The way his voice went soft when he talked about his father. How safe I felt with someone I couldn't even see clearly.

I tried searching online. Typed "James Seattle corporate" into Google like an i***t. Got about ten million results. James Anderson. James Park. James Rodriguez. None of them felt right. None of them were him.

"Girl, you're doing it again." Vivian's voice cuts through my spiral. She's leaning against the coffee shop counter, watching me with concern. "You've wiped that same spot five times."

I look down. She's right. The counter is gleaming. "Sorry. Distracted."

"You've been distracted all week." She moves closer, lowering her voice even though we're the only ones here. The shop doesn't open for another hour. "What's going on? Is it about the blackout? I felt terrible leaving you in that elevator."

I should tell her. Vivian's my best friend. She'd understand. But how do I explain that I had the most intense experience of my life with a complete stranger and now I can't find him?

"It's nothing," I lied. "Just tired."

She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her face. But she doesn't push, just squeezes my shoulder and heads back to inventory the pastry case.

I make it through my shift. Then my second shift at the restaurant. By the time I get home, exhaustion hits like a freight train. I barely manage to kick off my shoes before collapsing on my bed.

Sleep doesn't come easy. When it does, I dream in red emergency lighting.

A week becomes two. Two becomes a month.

I stopped searching for him online. Stop jumping every time I see a man in a nice suit.

Stop hoping.

He's probably forgotten all about me anyway.

Moved on. Found someone else to kiss in the dark.

The nausea starts on a Tuesday.

At first, I blamed it on the leftover Chinese food I ate for breakfast. Bad idea. Always a bad idea. But it doesn't stop. Wednesday, I can barely keep down toast. Thursday, I threw up twice during my morning shift.

"You need to go home," my manager says, not unkindly. "You look terrible."

I want to argue, but another wave of nausea hits and I'm running for the bathroom.

Friday, I'm still sick.

Saturday, Vivian shows up at my apartment with soup and suspicion.

"How long has this been going on?" she demands, setting the soup on my rickety kitchen table.

"A few days. Maybe a week." I curl up on my couch, pulling a blanket around myself. "It's probably just a bug."

"Kennedy." Her voice is serious. "When was your last period?"

The question hangs in the air.

I try to remember. I've been so busy, so distracted, I haven't been paying attention. "I don't... maybe six weeks? Seven?"

Vivian's expression shifts to something between concern and realization. "Girl. Please tell me you haven't..."

"Haven't what?"

She doesn't answer. Just pulls out her phone, types something, then grabs her purse.

"Come on. We're going to the pharmacy."

"Viv, I'm fine. It's just…."

"Now, Kennedy."

Twenty minutes later, I'm staring at a plastic stick in my bathroom while Vivian paces outside the door.

"How long does it take?" I called out.

"Three minutes. You've got one more."

My hands shake. This is ridiculous. I can't be pregnant. We were careful. Mostly. I think.

Everything was so rushed, so intense, I can barely remember the details.

Just his hands. His voice. The way he made me feel fearless.

"Time's up," Vivian says softly.

I look down at the test.

Two pink lines.

The world tilts sideways. I grip the sink, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to understand how my entire life just changed in three minutes.

"Kennedy?" Vivian knocks gently. "What does it say?"

I open the door. She takes one look at my face and knows.

"Oh, honey." She pulls me into a hug, and that's when I finally break. Tears I've been

holding back for weeks spill over, and I sob against her shoulder like a child.

Pregnant.

I'm pregnant with a stranger's baby, and I don't even know his last name.