Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(16)

Laurel grabbed the milk crate and set up their makeshift entertainment center, sitting cross-legged before the screen. She scrolled and scrolled, finding little of interest. In truth, in no universe was there any movie half as engrossing as the unexpected drama currently unfolding in her middle.

In the end she settled on some generic action movie, cueing it up, waiting for Flynn. She left the bed, intending to get herself a glass of wine, then promptly sat down, realizing her drinking days were done until such time as she knew what her choice was going to be. It triggered fresh panic, to think she had to get through the immediate future without the aid of alcohol. And the fact that that panicked her panicked her further.

How the f*ck can I have a baby? I’m not even sure if I have a drinking problem or not.

Plus there was her depression. Did that make postpartum depression a greater likelihood? She didn’t even need to wonder if having a depressed parent could hurt a kid—that was the story of her life. Plus the kid could inherit those same struggles, or Flynn’s anxiety, or her mom’s shit, or all of the above.

Flynn finally reappeared. He’d taken so long she wondered if he too had gotten caught up re-re-re-reading the test’s instructions and staring at the faint blue line.

“What kept you?” she asked, mustering a teasing smile.

“Just starin’ at a plus sign until my eyes crossed.”

“I guessed right.”

“What’re we watching?”

“We’re going to pretend to watch some movie about a hit man. But I imagine we’ll both be thoroughly stuck in our own heads.”

He nodded, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out some pajama bottoms and a clean thermal. Laurel watched him change, admiring his body with a reverent strain of appreciation. She was lost in biology just now, awed by Flynn in a way that had nothing and everything to do with sex.

His child is growing inside me. Perhaps a dream come true five or more years down the road, but for now, the most confounding decision of her life.

They went through the usual ritual, Laurel hitting play and the two of them propping pillows up against the shelves behind the bed, sitting side by side, her leaning into him, chilly feet finding each other beneath the covers. Usually she had a glass or bottle of something in her hand at times like this, and there it was again—that guilty pang to register how much she wanted a drink right now.

Her hand sought his atop the covers, and she took comfort in the size of it, the familiarity. She didn’t trust her intuition. It had become a close friend in the past half a year, but right now it felt like a broken Magic 8-Ball. Like she might ask it what to do, but all she’d get back was blue liquid pooling in her lap and the rattle of plastic inside plastic. Or perhaps simply, Reply hazy. Try again. And again, and again, every answer the same, identically unhelpful.

For half an hour they each pretended to give the movie their full attention, Laurel lost in what-ifs and certain Flynn was equally preoccupied.

She squeezed his hand before letting it go. “Need the bathroom.”

“Pause it.”

“Nah, I’m fine.” She had no clue who any of the characters were or what they were up to, and wasn’t interested in finding out.

When she returned, Flynn had tossed the covers aside, sitting with his legs outstretched in a V—a familiar invitation. She climbed onto the bed and got settled before him, grateful for his warm chest at her back, his strong arms circling her middle. She pulled the blanket back over them and laid her hands atop his in her lap.

“You taking any of this in?” he asked.

“Not a single pixel. What are you thinking about?”

“Blue lines. You?”

“Mainly marveling how I can have absolutely no idea what the right decision is supposed to be.”

“You’ve got time,” he reminded her.

We, she wanted to correct him. We’ve got time. It felt scary and lonely having the choice shoved wholly into her lap. She wanted to resent him for it, but she knew where his insistence was coming from. It was always the woman’s choice, ultimately. Though f*ck, that was a shitload of responsibility.

“It’d be easier if you were an *,” she said.

“Oh?”

“It’s obvious what decision would be best for me—this is the exact worst time possible for me to have a child. But if I could also say it’d be shitty for the kid, it’d make it all so easy. But I’m pretty sure you’d be a great father, so really, deciding to end it sounds completely selfish.”

“Not completely. It’s not easy growing up with a single parent. Or with two parents, if one of them isn’t up for it. I think you’d do a great job, don’t get me wrong, but I also think you’d do a better job if you were ready.”

“Mm.”

“You count, Laurel. What’s best for you matters. I know your own mom didn’t do much to drive that home, but it’s true.”

She felt emotion rush and rise at that, something breaking free in her chest, making her eyes sting. “How would you feel if I ended it? Disappointed or relieved?”

“I dunno. Maybe I’ll find out, and maybe I won’t.”

She sighed, exasperated and exhausted.

“I won’t tell you what you should do,” he said sternly. “I’ll do everything I can to help you figure it out—we can talk about it ’til we’re hoarse. But I dunno what I want any more than you do. I only know what I’d do if you decided to keep it, which is stick around.”