Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Why are you so good to me?”
“So… you going to pee or are we just going to vibe next to the toaster all night?”
She’s right.
No time like the present.
Still. I let the silence stretch on a few more seconds, eventually forcing myself off the couch. My legs feel heavier than they should as I cross the room, fingers closing around the box like it might burn me.
Take the test from the bag. Stare at it. “Shit. Am I ready for this?”
“You have every right to want to wait.”
I nod, throat tight. But my feet are already moving, carrying me down the short hall toward the bathroom. My hands shake as I tear open the box, plastic wrapper crinkling too loud, echoing off the white tile.
“I’m going to mute you so you can’t hear me peeing, but don’t hang up,” I tell her, reaching for the phone, muting it, and setting it on the counter.”
“Nope.”
I set the test on the counter. Wash my hands. Brush my hair back.
Then I sit on the toilet, willing myself to pee.
Wait.
And breathe.
Misson accomplished, I place the capped stick on the counter and set the timer on my phone.
Three minutes.
Longest. Three. Minutes. Ever.
Nova’s voice is faint but still there. Comforting. Present.
And all I can think is, “please, please, please… let it be negative.”
I lean my head back against the bathroom wall, tile cold against my spine. The silence roars. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that lets every worst-case scenario echo.
I close my eyes.
Try to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
I think about every time I’ve felt off this week. Every time my stomach clenched. Every time my body didn’t feel like mine. Every time I dismissed it.
Too much caffeine. Not enough sleep. Stress.
But now?
Now all I can think about is Turner’s hands on my hips. The way he kissed my neck. The way he whispered my name like it meant something.
The sharp sting behind my eyes threatens tears, but I force them down.
The timer on my phone hasn’t even moved. Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds left and I know I could check before the timer goes off but what if—
I drum my fingers against the edge of the counter. My knee bounces like it’s trying to run for the door as I look up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I look pale. And horrible.
I don’t even realize I’m whispering out loud when I say, “I’m not ready for this.”
Not ready to tell Turner.
Not ready to face what this could mean.
Nova’s voice filters in the phone. “This episode of The Great British Bake Off is crap, by the way. Why are all the biscuits so fucking soggy?”
I laugh.
Ninety seconds left.
My stomach twists again.
I close my eyes.
Start counting my breaths.
One. Two. Three—
“Bollocks,” Nova interjects. “That cake looks like utter shite.”
Another second passes.
I tap the floor with my heel.
Try to remember what day I last got my period. Everything blurs together—moving, work, Turner kissing me in the pool.
Thirty seconds.
I close my eyes again. “I can’t look.”
“Dammit. I knew I should have insisted on going home with you.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The timer buzzes.
My heart stutters.
Time to look…
turner
. . .
There’s a half-empty margarita glass sweating on the table between us, and my sister’s mascara is halfway down her cheeks like war paint. She’s doing that thing where she cries and tries to pretend she’s not crying, which isn’t a good look for her.
Red nose.
Bloodshot eyes.
Sniffles.
At least it looks and sounds like she has a cold.
“I swear,” Georgia says, stabbing her chip into the dip. “If one more person tells me this is ‘for the best,’ or everything happens for a reason, I’m going to throw this queso in their face.” She sighs. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
I drag my own chip through the soupy mess in the middle of the table and grunt. “Do it. I’ll back you up.”
My sister rolls her eyes. “You always say that.”
“Yeah, and I mean it every single time. You want me to tackle someone NFL style? Say the word.”
She huffs out a sad little laugh, smiling morosely. “You’re the best brother.”
I’m her only brother.
“Obviously.” I toss a chip in my mouth and lean back. “That guy was a douche. And not even a fun kind of douche.”
“What’s the fun kind?”
I shrug. I have no fucking idea but, “The fun kind looks a lot like my roommate Cash and sounds exactly like him, too.”
When my sister laughs, I get the satisfaction of being the shoulder she wanted to cry on tonight, especially since my own personal life is kind of fucked up at the moment. Makes me feel not so…
Alone.
She’s mid-rant about her idiot ex-boyfriend’s stupid gaming chair and the way he used to mansplain everything to her when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.
I ignore it.
Then it buzzes again.
And again.
Three in a row.