EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: The Final Faceoff

Excerpt

If You Get a Major Penalty and Panic Mode Engages

Hailey

The first thought that crosses my mind when I see the test is: Well, that’s unexpected.

The second thought is: This has to be a joke. A cosmic-level prank. Any second now, a hidden camera crew will pop out from behind the shower curtain, and a grinning host will step out of my closet to say, Surprise. You’ve been punked. And, yes, I’m aware that show has been dead for years, but still . . . everything comes back, right?

Please tell me this is it. A very bad joke. I squint at the stick in my hand. It still says pregnant.

I shake it.

Still pregnant.

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—loud, breathy, completely devoid of actual amusement. I slap a hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t stop the sound from spilling through my fingers. This isn’t a ha ha laugh, it’s more like an oh, oh—I’m so fucked—kind of laugh.

Because really, this can’t be real.

Missing my period three days ago seemed off, but now this thing telling me I’m pregnant . . . well, fuck, that’s not cool.

“It’s wrong, Hailey,” I tell myself.

I mean . . . this is Greece. Things outside your main home are usually not real, right? Like when you go to Vegas, and everything stays there. Or maybe the first test is wrong. Maybe Greek pregnancy tests are the opposite, positive means negative because they’re across the Atlantic. Or maybe the universe is just messing with me.

So, naturally, I take another test.

Then another.

Then, one more for good measure.

The tiny hotel bathroom seems to shrink around me. The air closes in, pressing against my lungs, making it impossible to drag in a full breath. It’s suffocating—thick with something I can’t escape. Sunlight spills through the window, casting golden stripes across the marble sink, like the universe is trying to frame this as a breathtaking, cinematic moment.

It’s not.

I am Hailey Jean Castilla. Documentary filmmaker. World traveler. A professional at diving headfirst into other people’s problems while executing a flawless, high-speed escape from my own. And if there’s one thing I have never been good at? It’s dealing with anything that demands I stay in one place.

When I said I wanted something new, something different, something that would shake up my life? Yeah. This is not what I meant. But apparently, the universe heard my request, had a good laugh, and decided to hand me a prize I never entered for.

I take a breath.

Then another.

Then I laugh again, teetering dangerously close to full-blown hysteria. Nope. Not close. Firmly there. I’m losing my shit.

Of course I am. This is the plot twist I did not see coming. It wasn’t in the script of my life. The one I try to write with a few rules, like have fun, never settle, stay away from your family as much as possible.

It’s worked so far . . . until now.

This, my life, isn’t what I do. Nope. I try to pay no attention to it because it could get boring. I always document history—the past. Stuff that’s already happened, already wrapped up in a neat little bow of tragedy or triumph. Or, if I’m covering a current crisis, my job is to observe, analyze, and highlight solutions—how people can help, how I can help, while keeping a professional distance.

I do not become the disaster.

And yet, here we are.

I set the test down next to the others—four little sticks of doom, lined up like they’re part of some coordinated attack on my sanity. I stare at them, waiting for one—just one—to blink at me and say, Just kidding.

They don’t.

“How?” I groan, dragging both hands down my face like I’m trying to erase the last five minutes from existence. Then, for good measure, I cover my entire face with my palms and mumble through my fingers, “How?”

I peek through my fingers, shake my head, then dramatically flop backward. “No, seriously. How? Am I cursed? The evil eye documentary has something to do with this? Is there some cosmic being using my life as their personal reality show?” I let out a long, suffering sigh. “If so, I’d really appreciate a script change.”

Listen, this shouldn’t happen to me. I’ve been careful. Always. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of dodging anything that might tie me down—roots, responsibilities, attachments. I had a plan—a really good plan.

Until I’m thirty-five, I won’t even think about children, being tied down to a man, or a white picket fence in that plan. Nope, I don’t need any of that right now.

So . . . what now?

I grab my phone, totally calm, completely composed, definitely not on the verge of a full-blown spiral. My hands? Not shaking. Not even a little.

The first name in my favorites is Leif. My thumb hovers over it. I almost tap it.

Almost.

And then I don’t, because what the hell am I supposed to say?

Hey, Leify, how’s life? All good? Guess what? I walked away with a freaking souvenir.

From Greece, With Love.

Yeah. No. Not doing that. Also I’ve never called him Leify, why would I start now?

Aspen? Also a hard pass. She’s already off scouting another location in Belize, and the last time we spoke, she cheerfully informed me that this time, I wouldn’t get invited. Her words. Apparently, my too-serious, doom-and-gloom approach doesn’t exactly vibe with this come-visit-this-paradise documentary. Plus, she doesn’t have the budget to include one more person on it.

Hence, I’m still in Greece, trying to justify my extended stay as research—which is mostly me staring at the Mediterranean and hoping inspiration strikes.

So, back to the real crisis at hand: Nomadic documentary filmmaker finds herself unexpectedly expecting. A plot twist for the ages. And now what? Do I pitch a documentary about my own life derailing in real-time?

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