The Kiss Thief(82)
“You’d be surprised,” I lied. Smithy was great. I just had an irrational need to have my husband do something nice for me. Since Artemis, he was careful not to show any signs of romantic gestures.
“I’ll get you your milkshake,” he said in no particular tone, leaving the room.
“Thank you!” I called out.
A moment later, Ms. Sterling, the number-one eavesdropper in North America, popped her head into the room.
“You two are the thickest smart people I know.” She shook her head. I was still lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, basking in my post-orgasm bliss. The sheets were wrapped around my body, but I wasn’t particularly worried about what she saw. She must’ve heard us hundreds of time by now doing what married couples did.
“What do you mean?” I stretched lazily, stifling a yawn.
“You’re pregnant, my sweet, foolish child!”
No.
It’s not happening.
It can’t happen.
Only it can. It must. And it makes so much sense.
The words looped in my head when I paid for my pregnancy test at Walgreens before I went to school. I devoured the strawberry milkshake as if my life depended on it, only to feel terribly nauseous afterwards, and I had a bad feeling, even before I crouched down and peed on the stick in the restrooms of my school, that Ms. Sterling was right. I swore under my breath. I could use Andrea right now. Someone to hold me when it was time to flip that stick and check the results. But Andrea was scared of my dad, and it was time to find and make new friends, outside of The Outfit.
Putting the cap back on the test and setting my phone to count down the minutes, I pressed my forehead against the door. I knew two things for certain:
I didn’t want to be pregnant.
I didn’t want to not be pregnant.
If I were pregnant, I’d have a huge problem on my hands. My husband did not want kids. He told me so himself. Quite a few times, actually. He even went so far as suggesting I’d live in a different place and get a sperm donor if I cared so much for children. Bringing an unwanted baby into the world was immoral, if not completely deranged, considering our circumstances.
But then, oddly, not being with child was also going to leave me disappointed. Because there was excitement and anticipation in finding out that I was carrying Wolfe’s baby. My mind took me to insane places. Places I had no business visiting. What eye color would our child have? They would have dark hair. Slim build, like both of us. But—gray or blue? Tall or short? And would they have his wit and my talent with the piano? Would they be ivory and snow, like my pale skin? Or would they have his rather tan complexion? I wanted to know everything. I resisted the urge to drag my palm over my stomach, imagining it getting swollen and round and perfect, carrying the fruit of our love.
The fruit of my love.
No one ever said that he loved me. No one even suggested that. Not even Ms. Sterling.
My phone beeped, and I jumped, my heart stuttering in my chest. No matter the result, I wanted to get it over with. I flipped the pregnancy test over and blinked back.
Two lines. Blue. Sharp. Prominent. Strong.
I was pregnant.
I broke into tears.
I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. Wolfe asked—no, he strictly stated—he didn’t want any children, and now, not even six months after our wedding, when we finally hit our stride, I was going to tell him that I was with child. A part of me pointed out, quite reasonably, that this wasn’t entirely my fault. He was to blame, too. In fact, he was the one who tried to coax me into having unprotected sex in the first place, with the nonsense about pulling out (great job with that one), and calculating the dates and telling me I wasn’t ovulating.
Only both of us didn’t take into consideration the fact that my period had changed the minute I took the Plan B pill.
Then again, I was the one who drew him close when he came inside me, preventing him—albeit by accident—from pulling out. I knew that there was no other occasion in which this might have happened. Save for the weekend at the cabin, we always used condoms.
Shoulders sagging, I got out of the bathroom, dragging myself down the corridor, out of the college, and into the unassuming autumn day. I needed to confide in Ms. Sterling. She’d know what to do.
I was heading toward Smithy’s car when Angelo tackled me to the grass out of nowhere. I yelped. The first thing I thought about was the baby. I pushed him off, watching as he laughed breathlessly, trying to tickle me.
“Angelo…” Hysteria bubbled in my chest. Wasn’t the first trimester the most crucial one? I couldn’t afford to roll on the ground. “Get off!”
He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his dark blond hair and staring me down. Where was it coming from? Angelo was always reserved and respectful. He was always nice to me, true, but he never touched me like this in the weeks after I got married.
“Jesus, goddess, sorry.” He offered me his hand, and I took it. I hated that he still called me goddess, but I guessed there were no laws against idle flirtation. Even though maybe there ought to be. That way women wouldn’t be able to proposition my husband every time he left the house.
That way you’d also live in an oppressive country.
I stood up and looked around, not really sure what I was looking for. I cleaned my dress and cardigan free of grass blades.