“I could stop working tomorrow and we could live the rest of our lives as comfortable as clams on a beach.”
“Clams on a—” I can’t finish, I’m laughing so hard.
“It’s my analogy. Roll with it. Anyway, if me being gone is affecting you this much, I will meet with my lawyers and start working out the paperwork to sell off some of my business holdings. I don’t need more money. I need more Ashley.” He kisses me on the nose and then whispers, “I need more baby Ashleys.”
I freeze in his arms. We’d never discussed having a baby, not seriously anyway. It was something we’d do “later,” right about the time I actually got around to cleaning out my closet and donating unwanted clothes to Goodwill.
You know, someday.
“A baby?” I push out past the knot in my throat the size of a baseball. Maybe a basketball. It’s a damn big knot, okay?
“Yeah. You know, those little things that cry and poop their diapers and bang on pots? We can hire a live-in nanny to take some of the stress off us but dammit, we’re going to be hands-on parents. I will change diapers. Speaking of stress removal, you have a lot on your plate at work – have you thought about hiring an assistant? Not just another employee, but an assistant to be there to do whatever you need during the day.”
“I was looking at financial projections and I’m not sure the company can afford the cos—”
“Send me the bill,” Apollo says, and I can tell he means it. “She can be your personal assistant, there to do whatever you want. If you want to send her out to go lingerie shopping every day, then do that.”
“Lingerie shopping every day?” I can’t hold in my laugh. True to form, the one thing Apollo can think of that I’d need help with is buying lingerie. I’m surprised he didn’t bring up vibes and nipple clamps.
“Well, we need to get you prego, you know. I think lingerie could never hurt in that pursuit.”
“So practical,” I say dryly, flipping him over onto his back and straddling his chest, running my fingers up him and to his jaw. “What else could we do to help this process along?”
“I’m sure I could think of a few things,” he says modestly, running his hands up my thighs and to my waist. “But before we get too far into this project, Ash, you know that vase was a joke, right? I saw it and it reminded me of that day when I made you stand on one foot for fucking ever, just to be a dick. I didn’t expect you to actually like it.”
“Oh thank god!” I say in a rush. “Because it is quite possibly the ugliest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
It is only minutes later and I find myself repeating “Oh god,” but this time? It is in a much more breathy tone of voice.
After all, we need to get started on that baby project right away.
205
Christine
I stare down at the pregnancy test in my hands.
No, no, no, no…
The red plus sign stares up at me, burning into my retinas.
I’m
Pregnant
This is not even possible. I can’t be pregnant. I’m on birth control pills! I pop one every morning without fail.
Okay, well, except for the mornings that I didn’t pop one. Which, if we’re being honest and apparently, I have no choice in the matter, happens waaayyyy too often. Like, at least once or twice a week. It’s just hard to remember to do something every single morning. I have a life, you know!
Which brings me back to this little pee stick in my hands. I guess I have two lives now.
I sit down with a thunk on the toilet. What the hell is Anders going to say? We’ve talked about having kids. It was a thing we were going to do. At least he isn’t dead set against the idea, right? At least he isn’t going to be pissed, right?
Or maybe he will. He’s busy at the university and he’s writing a new book on the history of armor in Spain and...
Yeah, we’re busy. He’s busy. He might want a child like he wants a hole in his head.
I hear the front door open and a jingle of keys. “Honey, I’m home!” Anders calls out. It’s our little joke – we pretend that we’re this 1950s couple who greets each other like that every day and sometimes, I’ll even throw on a little apron and heels to complete the mirage.
Except, we’re about to have a child, which is a very 1950s thing to do. And I definitely don’t have an apron or high heels on.
Frantically, I look around the bathroom. I have to ditch this test, at least until I’ve had a chance to tell Anders. I can’t exactly have him figure it out by finding the test, right? Out of sheer desperation, I shove the pregnancy test into the leaves of the fern in the corner, rearrange the leaves so it isn’t too noticeable, I hope, and flush the toilet. A quick run of the water in the sink and I can pretend like I totally was not just peeing on a stick.