Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I clear my throat, hyper-aware of my posture, my feet rooted to the floor, my hands; the fact that I have no idea what to do with them. One’s wrapped around my sweating glass, the other wants to stuff itself back in my pocket.
Poppy won’t make eye-contact.
Georgia, bless her meddling heart, doesn’t seem to notice the tension that’s thick enough to butter bread with.
“We were just saying how this place has the best chicken enchiladas. Life-altering. Their quesadillas are great too, if you just want nibbles.”
Beside the table, Nova shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers tugging at the hem of her sleeve.
Then, in possibly the least subtle move I’ve ever witnessed, she clears her throat. Loudly. Like choking on a corn chip, impossible to dislodge, eyes fastened on my sister.
Georgia ignores her.
Nova tries again, this time adding a dramatic stretch and a stage-whispered, “Um—Georgia, right?” she says, her tone edged with nerves. “Sorry to interrupt, but… could I borrow you for a teensy weensy second?”
Georgia blinks up at her, reluctant to tear her gaze from the menu.
“Me? Why?”
“I need help... finding the bathroom.” Nova gestures toward the opposite side of the restaurant where a neon Restrooms sign is literally glowing like a Vegas billboard, next to a massive mural of a Catrina with brightly colored angel wings.
More throat clearing.
More coughing.
Georgia’s eyes narrow suspiciously at Nova, looking between the two of us, her lip twitch tells me when she’s finally caught on.
Ohh…
“Oh,” she says slowly, sliding out of the booth with a chip still in hand. “Right. Bathroom. Yes. Come, friend. Let us pee.”
Nova rolls her eyes.
Poppy turns red.
poppy
. . .
There are about seventy-five things I want to say. Some of them are sharp and biting, born from every ache and confusing day since I left. Some are soft, vulnerable, the kind of words that make your throat hurt when you try to force them out.
None of them come.
Instead, I sit here. Frozen. Hoping he says something first because if I open my mouth now, I might accidentally ask him if he still sleeps in the hoodie I left behind.
Turner tilts his head, eyes never leaving mine. “You look great.”
Do I? Because I’ve felt like complete shit, but we’ll get to that in a second…
“Thanks,” I say, easy breezy—fake. “You look perfect, as usual.”
There’s a pause, not awkward, but charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes, where the air gets thick and you know a storm is on the horizon. I reach for a napkin and begin twisting it in my lap.
“So,” I blurt, louder than necessary. “How have you been?”
Ugh, how generic could I be?
Turner raises a brow, clearly amused. “You want to start with small talk?”
“Sure? I don’t know,” I mutter, flustered. “Do we start with small talk? Or with me groveling?”
This interests him and he seems to perk up. “You want to grovel? Tell me more.” He’s grinning, elbow on the table, chin resting on his fists as he studies me across the table.
“Would you please stop looking at me like that?”
It’s too much.
“All I’m saying is,” Turner says. “If you’re about to grovel, followed by a confession that you’ve been secretly in love with me since the moment you saw me, I’d prefer it be done before Georgia and Nova get back from the bathroom.”
I inhale. “I don’t think they’re coming back.”
He laughs. “No, I doubt it. They probably went out the back door.”
I splay my hands on the table, nibbling my bottom lip nervously. How much do I tell him? How much do I reveal about the past thirty-six hours?
How many pregnancy tests does a person have to take before they’re sure of the results?
“I want to share something with you because I want to begin this new chapter being completely honest.”
He nods.
“You know I haven’t been feeling well.”
Understatement; I’ve been barfing for days.
I glance down at my fidgeting hands, folding the napkin into a lame origami airplane that I immediately rip in half because I can’t sit still.
Deep breath.
“I took five pregnancy tests.”
His eyes widen at this announcement.
“Okay,” he says with bated breath. “And?”
“They were all negative,” I add quickly, before his thoughts spiral.
The tension in his shoulders relaxes, but he’s watching me closely, hands resting on the tabletop now.
“At first, I was relieved,” I admit, trying for casual but my voice wobbles. “Like, full-body sigh of relief. Because—newsflash—parenthood isn’t on my color-coded to-do list right now.”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile.
“But then…” I fiddle with the shredded napkin scraps in my lap. “Once the relief faded, I realized I was oddly disappointed about it.”
His brows lift in surprise.
“I’m not saying I wanted it to be positive,” I hurry to clarify. “It’s just—there was this teensy, weensy part of me that thought…if I was preggo, it maybe wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Since it would’ve been us.”