Ghosted: Uh-Oh (Part II)

Ghosted: Uh-Oh (Part II)
I miss you.

Written in her favorite lipstick.

“Oh, fuck no!” Molly screamed, stumbling backward into the sink. Her pulse spiked. “You can have this expensive-ass apartment—it’s not that serious!”

The lipstick message dripped slightly on the mirror, the scrawl still fresh and smeared like someone had just written it. Her heart pounded louder than the second bang echoing from the bathroom behind her.

Nope. Absolutely not.

She didn’t even grab her purse. Just her keys and shoes before bolting through the door barefoot. If the ghost wanted to live there so badly, let it cover the rent and the light bill.



One Week Later

“You look like roadkill,” Tiffany announced, lying sideways on Molly’s bed like she was auditioning for a gossip podcast. “Blotchy, pale, sweat-glossed. You sure you’re not dying?”

Molly groaned and pulled a pillow over her face. “Can you not diagnose me like a dramatic ER nurse?”

“I’m being honest. You look like a haunted doll right now.”

Molly peeked out. “That tracks. I haven’t really eaten. And I think my apartment’s actually haunted. Remember the lipstick?”

“Oh please. That could’ve been condensation. Or, like, a neighbor prank. You’re paranoid.”

“There were bangs, Tiff. Actual footsteps. My lipsticks don’t usually get up and write love notes to me.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Okay, but maybe it’s not a ghost. Maybe it’s a you problem.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tiffany shifted to her stomach, chin on her fists. “I’m just saying… your skin’s all weird, you’ve been throwing up, you’re dizzy, you haven’t texted back in days. Are you sure you’re not…?”

Molly sat up slightly. “Not what?”

“Pregnant.”

Molly snorted, then clutched her stomach. “No. No way. Definitely not.”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

“You and Robert…”

“We’re careful.”

“But sometimes…”

“Nothing happened,” Molly said too fast. Then corrected, “I mean, something happened, but—” she paused, blinking hard.

Her breath caught.

Wait.

The memory hit her like a brick. The night they hooked up. The fumble. The slip. The weird “oops” moment followed by awkward laughing and pretending it didn’t matter.

Her mouth suddenly went dry.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Tiffany looked up. “What?”

“I’ll be right back,” Molly said, springing from the bed and making a beeline for the bathroom. She slammed the door and dropped to her knees.

Okay, okay, don’t freak out.

She dug through the cabinet under the sink. Half-used bottles of conditioner, a broken hair straightener, some expired Tylenol, and—thank God—a pregnancy test still sealed in the box from the “grown woman” basket her mom sent after college.

She didn’t think she’d ever need it.

Surprise, bitch.

“Tiff!” she shouted, trying to sound casual. “You were right. I’m really not feeling great. I think I’m going to be in here for a while.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah! Just need some time. We can hang out later?”

“You sure?”

“Promise. Just… need to lay down after.”

“Alright,” Tiffany said. “Text me or I’m filing a missing persons report.”

Molly waited until the front door clicked shut.

Then: panic.

She ripped open the test box with shaking hands, read the instructions twice, and sat down on the toilet.

Of course, now I don’t have to pee.

She glared at the test. This is karma. From all those times you laughed at girls in movies who panic-bought tests.

She closed her eyes.

Think water. Waterfalls. Rainstorms. Leaky faucets. Sprinklers. Golden sho—okay, no.

Eventually, her bladder cooperated. She peed, capped the test, and set it gently on the sink like it was a bomb.

She washed her hands. Paced. Looked at the ceiling. Bit the skin around her nail. Checked the clock. Waited.

Please be negative. If it's negative I promise I won't have sex anymore.

She chuckled.

Okay, ww both know I'm lying but there are other stakes on the line. Like I can’t afford this. I just learned how to budget groceries. I literally cried over an overdraft fee last week.

She took a deep breath and peeked.

Her stomach dropped.

A plus sign.

No. No, no, no.

She blinked. Rubbed her eyes. Looked again.

The line was still there—taunting her.

She picked up the test, her fingers icy. “I’m pregnant?” she said aloud, barely above a whisper.

Her knees felt weak. She dropped onto the closed toilet lid and stared at the stick like it would change its mind if she stared long enough.

“I’m pregnant?” she repeated, this time louder.

“You’re pregnant!”

The voice came from the doorway.

She jumped and nearly dropped the test.

Spinning around, she found Robert standing there, frozen mid-step with his hand still on the doorknob.

Eyes wide.

Mouth parted.

Face pale.

She stared at him, heart hammering.

He stared at the test in her hand.

And then, louder—more real—he repeated it:

“ Molly, you’re pregnant!”