Page 37 of Irreplaceable

A few minutes later, I’d peed on a stick and washed my hands. I didn’t wait for the results—what would be the point? Still, the minutes clicked by slowly until Juliana’s gasp rang out from the bathroom.

“You’re pregnant.” When I said nothing, she came over and set the test on the coffee table before taking my hand in hers. “Harper, you’re going to be a mom!”

I shook my head, still refusing to believe it. There might be two blue lines, but that didn’t prove a damn thing.

“Were you exhausted last time?”

I frowned at the test where it sat on the coffee table, feeling their eyes on me. Juliana squeezed my hand as if to punctuate her statement before releasing me.

“Were you ever nauseated? Breasts tender?” Alexis asked.

I furrowed my brow. “No. But—” I turned away. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

I’d fallen for this before, gotten excited only to be devastated. And this time, it felt as if there was so much more at stake. This wasn’t a random sperm donor I’d never met. I’d slept with someone. A man I couldn’t stop thinking about, a man I now despised.

“I think you should make an appointment with your doctor,” Alexis said.

“Why? It’s probably just another chemical pregnancy,” I said again, even though a twinge of doubt prickled my mind. Could I actually be pregnant?

Alexis was right. I had been nauseated, exhausted, moody. My breasts were tender, feeling as if my bra was squeezing them when it never had before. I had these crazy dreams that felt so real, and then I’d wake up confused and disoriented.

I was miserable, but I’d chalked it up to jet lag, work, sadness. And bloating. Whenever I traveled, I didn’t eat as healthily as I liked, and sometimes, yeah, there was bloating. Now I wondered if what I’d thought was bloating was actually a baby growing inside me.

No.I shook away the thought. It was impossible. Right?

That night, I went home and opened a new browser window. I’d thought about doing this a million times, but I’d always talked myself out of it. With a deep sigh, I typed the name “Enzo Bianchi” into the search box and held my breath as I waited for the results to populate.

When they finally did after what felt like forever, I frowned. Page after page about a man in his seventies, the founder of a monastic community. Okay. Definitely not my Enzo.

I shook my head. He wasn’t mine. He’d never been mine. But now that I might be carrying his child, I could no longer ignore the fact that I’d slept with him. And if I really was pregnant…well… I sagged. I’d cross that bridge when I got there.

I continued scrolling. The results on the second page were no closer. Nor the third.

What the hell? Did he lie about his name?

I would’ve tried Lorenzo or Vincenzo, but unlike Americans, Italians didn’t shorten their names. Not for something like Enzo, which was a proper name itself. Even so, I figured it was worth a shot to search for Lorenzo or Vincenzo paired with the last name Bianchi. I tried both, feeling more hopeful, but neither yielded anything. And just like the night we met, I was left wondering, who the hell is Enzo Bianchi?