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)
Yeah, no. That sounds idiotic.
But unfortunately this is all I’m going to be able to think about. Annabelle doesn’t seem like the careless type—not that I’ve noticed so far in the short amount of time that we’ve been getting to know one another. And if she hadn’t wanted me to find this, wouldn’t she have hidden it in the trash can in my bathroom? Or thrown it in the bin under the kitchen counter?
Still, I can’t ignore it.
Do I wait for her to bring it up—and risk her never saying a damn thing about it?
She’s gonna say something, right? Even though the test is negative? She wouldn’t not tell me she thought she was pregnant. Seriously, what made her think to take a test?
Fuck. She must have been freaking out.
I toss the test back into the trash and cover it with a tissue, on the off chance she comes into this bathroom to . . . I don’t fucking know. Check on it?
Then I wash my hands.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I tell my reflection in the mirror before sitting on the toilet for a bit more privacy.
Not yet.
Ten minutes later she’s in the kitchen, rummaging in the pantry like nothing’s wrong. Hair up in a messy knot, cozy robe, humming to herself like she didn’t just maybe pee on a stick and toss it in the guest bathroom trash.
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Hey,” she says, not looking up. “You hungry?”
“Nope. Just . . . wondering how your day’s going.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder. “Since I last saw you a half hour ago?”
“Cool, cool.” I nod, hovering. “Any, uh—surprises?”
She turns. “Like what?”
“Just surprises. Unexpected things. Twists and turns.”
Now she’s suspicious, and she squints her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you did something?”
I lean on the counter. “I’m not. But hypothetically—if someone had a secret. Something important. Kind of health adjacent? Possibly involving, oh—I don’t know—a store run and a brief moment of panic?”
She freezes.
Gotcha.
“What the hell are you even talking about?” Annabelle turns her back again and takes down a bag of popcorn.
“I don’t know—what do you think I’m talking about?”
She scoffs, still not facing me. “You are being so annoying.”
“Annoying?” I feign offense. “Wow. I thought I was being inquisitive. Curious. Intellectually engaged.”
“No, you’re being weird.” She rips open the popcorn bag and tosses it in the microwave, sets it for three minutes, poking the button in an irritated fashion.
I stroll to the fridge, open it, grab a soda, simply so I can brush my arms against her. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to have a baby with a terrible name? Like Peach or Maverick Junior?”
She freezes. “Why would I wonder that?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Just seems like a thing people think about. When they’re at the store. Buying snacks.”
We wait in silence. The microwave beeps. She opens it, snatches the bag out, and gives it a shake with more aggression than necessary.
“You know what else is wild?” I say casually, popping the soda tab. “How babies can’t hold their own heads up for months. Like—evolution really dropped the ball on that one.”
She freezes mid-shake. “Callum.”
I love it when she uses my real name. Have I mentioned that enough times?
“Seriously. You ever try holding a six-pound meat loaf that randomly flails and screams and shits itself?”
She stares at me, blinking.
I take a sip. “Not that I’ve done that, obviously. Just saying. Something to think about.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why would I be thinking about meat loaf babies?”
My shoulders shrug. “It’s two things I love—meat loaf and babies.”
She slams the popcorn bag on the counter. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking in riddles—”
“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands in surrender. “No riddles. Just hypotheticals. Like: What would be worse—a baby who pukes all the time, or one who only sleeps when being held with ocean sounds in the background?”
She groans and finally rips the popcorn open, the steam cloud puffing up like it’s trying to escape the awkward energy in the room.
I lean against the counter. “Do you like the name Poppy?”
She levels me with a long, suspicious look like she’s trying to figure out whether I’ve been body snatched or recently concussed as she dumps the popcorn into a serving bowl.
Then, without a word, she grabs the bowl and walks right past me, robe swishing dramatically as she heads into the living room.
I follow. Obviously.
She settles onto the couch and pulls a blanket over her lap. I flop down next to her, careful not to knock the popcorn out of her hands. That would be fatal.
“Truce?” I ask.
She offers me the bowl. I take that as a yes.
We sit in silence for a minute, crunching as she points the remote at the television. Then, because I’ve lost the ability to leave well enough alone, I clear my throat. “So for real. Do you want kids someday?”