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)
“I know!” I nibble on my bottom lip as the scene plays over in my head like a movie reel. Me, stomach twisting. Maverick in the shower. Me and the bag from the drugstore, alone together. Five minutes of my frantic phone call to Lucy followed by one second of impulsive panic. Then I was sitting on the toilet seat, taking the damn thing like I was on a time crunch.
“If it makes you feel better, I meant to go back for it!” I protest. “But then he got out of the shower, and he was sexy and slick and glistening and smelled so fucking good and then there was popcorn and laughing and the situation on the couch—”
“You’re babbling.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Okay. Let’s get back on track,” Lucy says. “What makes you think he knows you took a pregnancy test?”
“He wasn’t acting normal—and by normal I mean, goofy and funny and broody. He was . . .” I stop and think. “Asking me about baby names and shit.”
Lucy’s silent for a beat. “Okay, go on.”
“He brought up Halloween costumes for his imaginary future children. Oh! And then—he said he likes the idea of building a family someday. A family.”
Lucy lets out a low whistle. “And you’re sure he’s not just . . . that into you?”
“I mean, yes, he’s into me.” I wave my hand like that’s a given. “We literally came on the couch at the same time fifteen minutes ago.”
“So romantic.”
“Shut up.”
Lucy sighs. “So how are you going to fix this?”
I flop backward dramatically. “I don’t know! If I bring it up and he didn’t see it, I’ll look insane. And if he did see it and I don’t say anything, then I look like I’m playing some manipulative long game.”
My best friend makes a pfft sound. “You kind of are.”
I gasp. “Can you please be helpful for Once in Your Life?”
She gasps back at me. “Excuse me? I’m always helpful! I am the calm, chill friend—you are the one peeing in garbage cans of a man you got drunk with and married at another person’s wedding and it ended up all over the news!”
That shuts me right up. “Hmm. You do make a valid point.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “I love you, but if you don’t go talk to this man soon, I’m going to drive over there myself and hand deliver him all your secrets on a silver platter.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Lucy says sweetly.
She would, actually. She absolutely would. Because that’s what best friends are for: emotional blackmail via threats of silver-platter truth bombs.
“All right. So how do I find out for sure if he knows I took the pregnancy test?”
There’s a beat.
“Let me think for two seconds.” She hums, slipping into full chaos-strategist mode. “Oh! Okay. I’ve got it—you have two options.”
“Hit me.” I’m ready.
Go.
“One: You casually ask if he took out the trash lately. Then watch him to see what he does. If he flinches, bingo! Guilty. If he stares at you like he has no idea on earth what you’re talking about, he probably didn’t see it.”
“Eh.” Don’t love that. “What’s option two?”
“You stage a fake discovery. Go into the guest bathroom and pretend you saw it for the first time. Gasp. Say something dramatic like ‘Oh my God, what’s this doing here?’ And see what he does.”
That is truly horrifying. I’m a terrible actress. “Lucy, I am not pulling a reverse Scooby-Doo reveal on a pregnancy test.”
“Fine,” she says. “Option three.”
Oh goody. “There’s a third?”
“Of course.” She pauses. “You put your big-girl sweatpants on, walk into the living room, and say, ‘Hey, remember how we had lots and lots and lots of unprotected sex? I may have panicked and taken a test in your guest bathroom and forgot to dispose of it like a civilized human?’ And then see what he says.”
“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “That makes me sound like an asshole.”
“I’ll bring the platter.”
“Lucy—”
“I’ll polish it,” she threatens.
“Stop.”
“Should I add a lace napkin under the pee stick, or do we want to keep it rustic?” I can practically hear her tapping her chin in thought.
“This is all easier said than done.”
“Annabelle—as far as the world knows, you’re married to this man.”
True.
I stand from the bed and walk to the mirror, giving myself another once-over, adjusting the mop on top of my head.
“Oh!” She gasps. “Option four!”
“I’m listening.” With bated breath.
“You tell him you didn’t get your period and that you went to the pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test—then you take another one, pretending you’re taking it for the first time.”
“Lucy.” I inhale. “That is genius.”
“I know! He doesn’t know that you know he knows!”
Exactly!
My stomach lurches—from nerves or excitement and all the things.
For sure nerves.
’Cause what else could it possibly be?
I hang up with Lucy and go to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Adjust the bun on top of my head again, brushing it and tidying it up. Wash my hands.