Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
One of them nods. “Reports out of Arizona say he’s come back even stronger. Coaches are calling him the anchor of the entire defense.”
I have no idea what any of this means, but I am glued to the television.
“And if he’s playing this well while navigating a mystery marriage?” someone adds, eyebrows raised. “Other teams should be nervous.”
“Especially with the Jets reshuffling their offensive line.” The female host jumps back in. “And don’t sleep on Miami. Their new QB has legs, but he’s not outrunning McBride.”
Another round of agreement, arguments, and the screen splits—one side showing Maverick mid-tackle in a practice scrimmage, the other from what must be last season.
The subhead below reads: Newlywed Maverick Mcbride: Back to Crush Offenses.
“Ugh!” I click the TV off.
Silence swallows the massive apartment. I stare at the black screen, my own reflection staring back.
What the hell are we doing?
I press a hand to my stomach. Not because I’m sick—because I’m spun up. Suddenly anxious and nauseous in the way you get when something you didn’t mean to matter starts mattering a whole damn lot.
I sink onto one of the barstools at the counter, phone in hand, and open my texts. Nothing from him checking in with me yet.
I swipe that away, opening Instagram to see how many times I’ve been tagged. I had to make my sad little account private and go through the new followers I’d gained overnight, whittling away at deleting them, one by one.
What a pain in the ass.
Go back to my discovery page, and there we are again.
A blurry shot of Maverick with his arm slung around my shoulders the night of the wedding, my face turned up toward him, laughing. Beers. Evy.
I barely remember that moment.
But someone caught it. Posted it. Found us and tagged us.
#McBrideAndBride
Jesus. So surreal.
I check my mentions. They’ve quadrupled. Random strangers weighing in on whether I’m good for him. My appearance. My weight. The size of my boobs.
Whether I’m a bad-luck distraction. Whether I’m “the one.”
The one. As if this is a fairy tale.
My stomach flutters again, and I press my hand to it again.
I exit Instagram, thumb hovering over my weather app like that’s going to bring any sense of control back into my life.
Instead, my screen flashes with a little red dot—a reminder from my period tracker. Log your cycle. Right. Almost forgot my uterus likes to stay on schedule.
I sigh and tap it open, more muscle memory than intention, waiting as the app spins and loads.
A buzz. The screen goes blue.
You’re six days late. Please update period.
I blink at the screen.
Nope. That can’t be right, can it? I scroll. Double-check the dates.
Last logged period: four and a half weeks ago. Mood notes: bloated, tired, craving salt. Ha ha, sounds about right. Most months I’m moody, crabby, and bloated, but the new hubby doesn’t need to know that.
Six days.
That means nothing, right?
My heart kicks hard behind my ribs. My mouth goes dry. I can still taste his mouth on mine from last night. He’s been wearing condoms, because we still have not gotten tested, but there were those times before when he didn’t.
Plenty of times before.
“You’re being dramatic,” I tell the app.
Still. Maybe I should . . . you know . . . go grab a test?
There’s a pharmacy around the corner. Two blocks. I’ve seen it on the way back from coffee runs, tucked between a dry cleaner and a smoothie place that smells like grass.
I keep my head down as I walk. Sunglasses on even though it’s not that sunny. Every person I pass, I wonder if they recognize me. Her. Maverick McBride’s mystery wife.
The one he’s keeping hidden.
The one not seen out in public.
My stomach churns.
The automatic doors hiss open, and I head straight for the back corner like I’ve done this a million times, even though my hands are shaking. I bypass the vitamins, the skincare aisle, the snacks.
Straight to that aisle.
And there they are. An entire wall of choices.
One for early results. One with “rapid response.” One with words instead of lines. There’s even one that connects to an app, which feels . . . extra.
I grab a box of three. Apparently I don’t trust science or myself.
At the counter, the clerk gives me a polite smile and doesn’t say a word. Thank God.
Back outside, the sun is hotter than I expected, my T-shirt clinging to my back. The bag in my hand weighs more than it should. Or maybe that’s just what it feels like when you’re carrying around a question mark that might change your entire life.
By the time I reach the apartment again, my fingers ache from clutching the bag too tight.
I pause in the hallway.
Breathe.
Then unlock the door and slip inside.
“Hey. Did you go for a walk?”
“Jesus!” I gasp, practically flinging the bag into the kitchen island as I jump out of my skin.