His brow wrinkles. “What? Trap me? No. I was just—aw, fuck it. Good. Glad you aren’t prego.”
Women are fucked up. A guy tries to show some concern and they flip their shit. What the hell?
Trap me? What the fuck? Shit… trap me? Really? It’s not like it would upset me if—Mo and my baby?
My lungs hitch at the thought. I slide a glance her way. A vision of a sweet little green-eyed blonde with satin skin like her mama’s pops into my mind. Or, what if we had a boy, sandy hair with Mo’s blue eyes? My heart swells.
No. Stop. Don’t even go there. It’s obvious the idea is abhorrent to Mo. She’s still got to finish school. But people do it all the time; and she’d only have a year left by the time the baby came. It’s not completely out of the realm of doable.
No.
Shit.
Hell’s bells. Why am I even thinking this? She doesn’t even fucking love me and I want her pregnant with my baby?
The plastic just-in-case-she-barfs bag in Mo’s lap covers the place a baby would thrive in her womb. I can just imagine Mo’s golden skin stretched taut over our baby inside, all warm and safe.
Fuck yeah, I want her pregnant with my baby. I want it all. The house, the SUV, the kids, the dogs. Hell, even a cat, if that’s what she wants.
Now, all I have to do is make her fall in love with me.
It’s been two days since Danny scared the living shit out of me with his question about whether or not I could be pregnant. It’s all I think about.
Worry about.
I’ve been sick every afternoon. Not sick early in the day at all. Obviously not morning sickness. So, surely—
Well, we’ll find out. I lay the white stick with its accusing little window on the counter. After I wash up, I creep into the hallway, checking that Danny hasn’t come home.
Back into the bathroom.
No. Not enough time has gone by.
I sit on the edge of the bed, gnawing on my thumbnail. My stomach is full of mean and nasty butterflies, the poisonous kind. Okay, I don’t know if there are any such things as toxic butterflies, but the ones in my gut must be with the way it feels.
Please don’t let Danny return in the next two and a half minutes.
I grab a handful of crackers from the cabinet in the kitchen, munching on them as I pace into the living room. The microwave clock has to be stuck. I check my phone. Nope. Same time shows on both. Damn.
Finally, my timer goes off. I race to the bathroom, grabbing the doorframe before I trip onto the tile from the carpet in the hallway. I suck in a deep breath and swallow the trepidation trying to choke me.
It will be negative. God is not this cruel.
Right?
My foot hits the cold floor. The next step lands on the plush rug in front of the sink. I stare into my reflection, avoiding the results that’ll either free me or land me in a special kind of hell. I’m pale beneath my tan, bottom lip tucked between my teeth.
I straighten up. “Whatever happens; it’s all right. I can handle it.”
I pick up the stick, gripping it in my trembling hand.
“Mo?”
Fuck.
My eyes dart around the bathroom. Shit. Where do I put it?
Not the trash, he’ll see that.
The conch shell on the back of the counter has a space under it. I grab it.
I’m just about to set the shell over the stick when his arms slide around my waist and his chin lands on my shoulder. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”
I droop in defeat.
Caught. The test stick in one hand, the shell in the other.
“What’s this?” He reaches for the white plastic in my hand.
I twist away from him. “Just get out.”
“What’s wrong?” He frowns, his eyes darting from the shell to the stick and back.
I can’t help but look at what he’s staring at. See what he sees. How incriminating is it?
I pull my hands in close to my body as my eyes fall to the two items in my grasp. The underside of the shell is pink, with—“What the hell?”
Turning the shell to a better angle, I stare into it. A small black device is lodged inside.
Danny lets out a groan.
I slap the stick onto the counter and pluck the mechanism from the pink encasing it, holding it up between us. “What is this?”
Turning it this way and that, I study it. An even darker gloom creeps over my day. Then a rush of anger floods me. “A camera? Is this a fucking camera?”
TWELVE
Her face changes color. Not the pretty pink I love, but red, like I-will-cut-yo-ass red.
I throw up my hands. “Fuck! Yes.”
That shithead. I thought I found them all. Do I tell her it was him? Will she inform my mom? Will Mom spiral into a drinking binge she’ll never crawl out of? What happens when Rachel finds out?
Holy shit.