Maybe Now (Maybe #2)(51)

I have two of the tests open, and she rips a third one open, then grabs a mouthwash cup from next to the sink and rinses it out. She pulls down her shorts and sits on the toilet.

“Did you even read the instructions? Are you supposed to pee in an unsanitized cup?”

She ignores me and begins peeing in the cup. When she’s finished, she sets it on the counter. “Dip them!” she says.

I stare at her cup of pee and shake my head. “I don’t want to.”

She flushes the toilet and pulls her shorts up, then shoves me out of the way. She dips all five sticks into the cup at once and holds them there. Then she pulls them out and lays them all on a towel.

This is all happening so fast, I’m not sure I’ve had time to process the thought that we’re about to find out if Bridgette is going to be a mother. Or whether Warren is going to be a father.

“Do either of you even want kids?” I ask.

Bridgette shakes her head adamantly. “Not even a little bit. If I’m pregnant, you can have it.”

I don’t want it. My idea of Hell is having a child comprised of pieces of Warren and Bridgette.

“Bridgette!” Warren yells, right before the front door slams shut. Bridgette cringes. The bathroom door swings open, and I suddenly don’t feel like I should be in here anymore. “You can’t text me something like that in the middle of my study group and then ignore me when I call you back!”

Warren…in study group? I laugh, but my laughter causes both of them to turn their glares on me. “Sorry. I just can’t picture Warren in a study group.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a mandatory group project.” He turns his attention back on Bridgette. “Why do you think you’re pregnant? You’re on the pill.”

“Pickles,” she says, as if that’s a good explanation. “I stole three pickles off my customers’ plates tonight and I hate pickles. But all I can think about are pickles!” She turns back toward the pregnancy tests and picks one up, but it hasn’t been long enough yet.

“Pickles?” Warren says, flabbergasted. “Jesus Christ. I thought this was serious. But you craved a fucking pickle.”

Warren is stuck on pickles, but I’m still stuck on the idea of Warren in a study group. “When do you graduate?” I ask him.

“Two months.”

“Good,” Bridgette says. “Because if I’m pregnant, you need to get a real job so you can raise this child.”

“You aren’t pregnant, Bridgette,” Warren says, rolling his eyes. “You craved a pickle. You’re so dramatic.”

This entire conversation is making me want to ensure Ridge and I use double the protection from now on. I take my birth control religiously, but there’s been a time or two that we haven’t used a condom. Never again, though.

Bridgette picks up one of the pregnancy tests and presses her hand against her forehead. “Oh, fuck.” She turns and tosses the stick toward Warren. It hits him in the cheek and then he fumbles as he tries to catch it.

“Is it positive?” I ask.

Bridgette nods, running her hands down her face. “There’s a line! Shit, shit, shit, there’s a really long, visible line! Fuck!”

I look at one of the boxes. “A line just means it’s working. It doesn’t mean you’re pregnant.”

Warren is holding the stick between two fingers when he drops it back on the towel. “That has your pee on it.”

Bridgette rolls her eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. It’s a pregnancy test.”

“You threw it at me. There’s pee on my face.” He takes a hand towel and wets it under the faucet.

“You aren’t pregnant,” I reassure her. “It’s not a plus sign.”

She picks up another one of the tests and studies it, leaning against the counter. “You think?” She picks up one of the boxes and reads it, then sighs with relief. She pours the cup of urine out in the sink.

“Why didn’t you pour that in the toilet?” Warren asks with a grossed-out look on his face. This, coming from the guy who ate a bar of cheese after Bridgette tried to wash herself with it.

“I don’t know,” Bridgette says, looking at the sink. She turns the water on to rinse it out. “I’m distressed. I wasn’t thinking.”

Warren slips in front of me and wraps his arms around Bridgette, bringing her head to his level. He brushes her hair back gently. “I’m not going to get you pregnant, Bridgette. After our first scare, I wrap my Jimmy Choo up hella tight every time.”

I was on my way out of the bathroom to give them privacy, but I freeze when I hear Warren refer to his penis as a Jimmy Choo.

I turn back around. “Jimmy Choo?”

Warren looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. “Yeah, that’s his name. Ridge doesn’t nickname his penis after cool things?”

“Cool things?” I say. “Jimmy Choos are designer shoes.”

“No,” Warren says. “A Jimmy Choo is a rare Cuban cigar. Right, Bridgette?” he says, looking at her. “You’re the one who named him.”

Bridgette tries to keep a straight face, but she sputters laughter. She brushes past me and runs into the living room, but Warren is right on her heels. “You said Jimmy Choos were huge cigars!” They end up on the couch, Warren on top of her. They’re both laughing, and it’s the first time I’ve ever really seen them affectionate.