CeCe is not entirely sure how it happens. Maybe somebody from the doctors' office wasn't as discreet as they were supposed to be, or maybe somebody put together the fact that she'd gained twenty pounds and the fact that she went shopping with her mom at Carter's. Maybe it's because her mom bought her a book titled A Thousand Names for a Baby and gave it to her at an ice cream shop where she was eating vanilla and honey together.
Probably, CeCe thinks, it was everything put together, and it was finally too much to fit in a box, hidden at the back of her closet.
Sarah comes to her house in the morning, and sits down at the kitchen table long enough that CeCe says, "Um, did you want breakfast?"
"We have an interview in three hours, and TMZ just published the fact that you're pregnant."
The interview is supposed to be about her choreography and the shake it up set, and the routines coming up, and her favorite dancers.
It's not.
CeCe can't really blame them.
"So TMZ came out with an interesting story earlier today—did you hear that you're pregnant?" The woman in a blue suit asks, and she only looks half amused, like she'll accept the idea that TMZ is crazy, but—
"Yeah," CeCe says, swallowing. "I guess—I guess everyone had to find out eventually? So, um, surprise!"
She doesn't really think calling the rest of a day an explosion is an overstatement, but by the time she gets home, she doesn't want to think about it at all. She doesn't have a choice though, because Gunther's called three times in the past ten hours, and CeCe knows it isn't a, "Hey, you wanna' hang out?" sort of call.
She's home for exactly thirty-seven minutes before her phone starts ringing again, without press or family or managers surrounding her. She picks it up. "Hey, Gunther."
He sounds surprised that she actually answered, and hesitantly says, "Hey, CeCe."
They're quiet for a few minutes, the silence stretching out until she can't take it anymore. "So, you're probably calling about, um."
"Yeah," Gunther says, roughly. Then, quietly, "Is it—I mean, is it—"
She interrupts him before he can get the question out, before he can say it, before she can ruin everything and tell him the truth. They weren't two people who were happy, and in love, and ready to have children and puppies and share a house and a bed and a life. This happened to CeCe, not to Gunther, and it's hers, it's—it's hers to take and deal with and live with.
"Don't—don't worry." She breathes. "It's not yours."
After a moment, Gunther says, "What?" like he doesn't get it, doesn't understand, like he's confused and doesn't believe her. She almost wants to laugh.
Sturdier, she says, "It's not yours, Gunther."
"I don't—" he says, stopping. Then, "Whose is it?"
CeCe's answered that question more times than she can count today, and the whole past week. "It doesn't matter," she says. "He's not—he's not going to be involved. And I don't really need him to be. Can we—can we not talk about—him? I just, today's been really busy and—"
"Yeah, sorry, you probably need to sleep or—yeah," he says, jerkily, like he's the one who wants to throw down the phone and never talk to the person on the other side of the line again. CeCe clutches the phone tighter as she says, "I—I'll talk to you, um, later."
"Yeah, CeCe," Gunther says, and then there's a click, and she slowly puts down the phone.
She cries hard enough that her headache builds and she gets sick. She wonders what would happen if she told hin it was his. Would they—would they share custody? Would they trade the baby back, on and off on weekends? Would they move in together and try to raise it like—like some crazy family on a soap opera? What if Gunther didn't want anything to do with it? What if he was mad? What if he wanted sole custody or just to keep pretending it wasn't his at all?
It's just—it's better to do this on her own.