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)
“Then he freaks out. If he’s even half the guy he’s seemed like these past couple weeks? He’ll want to be there for this moment. For you.”
She’s so right. He would want to be here.
I look down at the test in my hand again. It suddenly feels heavier. Like it’s trying to tell me Lucy’s right.
She keeps going, gentle now. “This doesn’t have to be a solo act. You’re literally married to the guy.”
Not really . . .
“You don’t have to take it now, right this second.”
I nod again, swallowing hard. “I know, but it will kill me to wait.”
She’s quiet for a second, then: “Do you want me to stay on the line until he’s out of the shower?”
“No, I’ll be okay. Thank you, Lucy.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
There’s silence, and I imagine her nibbling her bottom lip, something she does when she has more to say. “You’ve been in Arizona for a week, and I haven’t seen you once. It feels like an eternity.”
It actually doesn’t. It’s going by in a blur.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t go back to Washington tomorrow—we can hang out the way we had planned to.”
She agrees. “I know—but I’ve been gone too long already, and the girls at the yoga studio can’t hold down the fort another day. A huge group of women are arriving for a wellness retreat, and I have to be there.”
Lucy has a staff of three other yoga instructors, but of course, no one does it better than the owner. I smile faintly, thumb brushing along the seam of the pharmacy bag. “I know you have actual responsibilities and bendy, flexible people count on you.”
I am neither of those things.
Lucy sighs dramatically. “Ugh, don’t remind me. You’d think a group of grown, professional women could make their own celery juice in the morning, but apparently that’s too much to ask.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “I miss you.”
“I miss you. I should stay. I really like it here, even though it’s hot as hell.”
“Nah, I’m managing just fine in this penthouse apartment.”
We sit in silence for another beat, the kind of quiet only best friends can share without it feeling awkward. The kind that makes everything feel a little less terrifying.
Lucy finally says, soft again, “Whatever it says when you take it—whatever happens—call me or text me; I have my phone. I mean it.”
“I will.”
We end the call, and I tuck my phone in my lap. The sound of running water continues to be heard down the hall.
One breath.
Two.
Then I do the thing I called my best friend about: open my robe, pull down my underwear, and sit down on the toilet seat. Rip open the box for the pregnancy test, tear open the wrapper.
Pee on it.
Set it aside and wait, hoping nothing will have changed in five minutes’ time, when, in reality, everything might . . .
Chapter 24
Maverick
I don’t always use the powder room in the hallway, but when I do, I notice things that aren’t supposed to be there.
Like: pregnancy test kinds of things, hidden in the trash.
Not hidden well either. Tucked under crumpled tissue, as if that’s enough to keep someone from spotting it. White stick, blue cap, window clear as day.
What the fuck?
Where did this come from?
The cleaning ladies haven’t been here since Annabelle and I got back. I purposely asked them to skip the week—I wanted time with her. Just us. No schedule. No interruptions. No Polly or Fiona humming along with the vacuum while I try to make a move on my maybe-wife.
And if they had found this? They’d shit a solid gold brick and text me in a panic like they always do when they find random crap in my apartment.
I swallow, heart kicking into high gear.
I reach into the trash without thinking, grabbing the test by one end, completely ignoring the fact that it’s definitely been marinating in pee. My brain’s firing too fast to care.
I bring it closer, scanning the tiny window for that sadistic symbol that either detonates your future or lets you keep living in blissful ignorance. The key on the side shows two lines for pregnant.
My gaze flies to the actual result window.
One line.
Wait. Wait—just one? That means it’s negative! As in: no fucking baby.
I stare at that single line longer than necessary, brain tripping over the possibilities. Not pregnant. Which means I should feel what? Relief. Disappointment? Confusion’s definitely in the top three.
We were careless, fucking with no protection, sure. Reckless? Yeah, maybe too wrapped up in each other to bother with a condom the first few days. Perhaps too confident that we wouldn’t have to deal with any consequences . . .
I exhale.
The pieces click into place from earlier. “This must have been in that bag from the store.”
Duh. Obviously.
Do I ask Annabelle about this?
And . . . what do I fucking say? “Oh hey, noticed a negative pregnancy test when I was about to take a shit in the guest bathroom, know anything about it?”