Chapter 35
AVA
Despite the craziness of the day, my mind quiets when I close the front door of Anderson’s house behind me.
Immediately, I hear the warm music from the record player in the living room and smell the savory, smoky aroma from the kitchen, making my mouth water and my stomach growl loudly enough to remind me that all my meals today have consisted of decaf coffee and a protein bar.
I thought that coming into Anderson’s home would have my compulsions and anxiety skyrocketing, but, for some reason, it’s been the opposite.
Ever since the fire last year, my compulsions were loud and constant—intrusive thoughts looping until I lined things up, wiped them down, checked the lock one more time, chased that fleeting “just right” feeling that never actually lasted.
But here, the anxiety doesn’t spike the same way; when my thoughts start to spiral, Anderson’s presence—the sound of him in the next room, the steady rhythm of another person moving through the space, seeing traces of him everywhere I look—interrupts the loop before it tightens, grounding me in the moment.
The urges are still there—they always will be—but they don’t get a chance to grip down as hard, and for the first time in a long time, I remember what it’s like to feel relief that lasts more than three seconds.
Relief that reminds me how to let go, how to focus on what’s in front of me, how to remember that it doesn’t always have to be so hard.
As I hang my bag and jean jacket up on one of the three hooks Anderson hung up by the door when Georgie and I first moved in, I step out of my shoes and put them next to Anderson’s work boots, fixing Georgie’s sneakers that look like she threw off her feet.
“Ava?” Anderson calls from the kitchen, his voice just above the music I can assume Georgie is playing.
Anderson had asked me about taking Georgie to the record store today, and I think it’s slowly becoming a tradition of theirs to play whatever record they pick up from front to back, listening to it together.
I was so confused at first when he asked if it was okay to take her while I was at work, not because of what he was asking, but because he asked.
For some reason, I forgot that she was mine. Not ours.
“Hey.” I close the distance between Anderson and me, stopping at a reasonable distance.
Seeing him in an apron, his hair swept back as if he just ran his hand through it, a small smile under a more-defined mustache than usual that he’s been sporting the last week or two, is too domestic for me to handle.
My skin heats at the way his lips curve into a smile as he takes me in.
We haven’t had much time to talk since that night before we got married, alone in our hotel room.
The day after the concert was filled with shopping with Emerson and Rumi while Jack and Anderson did some sightseeing. We had dinner reservations, and then Emerson and Rumi insisted that Anderson and I stay apart while we got ready and arrived at the Little White Chapel.
I couldn’t find it in me to argue, foggy from exhaustion and coming down from the high of the kiss the night before. I was surprised by how nervous I was, needing time with my friends to gather my bearings and get my mind off what was about to happen.
I thought maybe my nerves came from the finality of signing the papers, actually getting married. Committing fraud. But that wasn’t it.
My nervous system couldn’t tell the difference between a fake marriage and a real one—the butterflies in my stomach were almost debilitating, but in a way I welcomed rather than fought.
I was about to marry the man I’m falling in love with.
And he’ll never know.
“You made dinner?” I ask, finding the dining table set and oven trays covering the counter filled with perfectly cooked steaks, crispy potato wedges, and grilled asparagus. My stomach growls again, even louder this time.
“I did,” Anderson says, his smile deepening, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle, and my knees threaten to buckle.
This has to be the pregnancy hormones.
Right?
My lips part to say something, even though my mind muddles, the thoughts going quiet.
I need to tell him about the pregnancy—possible pregnancy—since the last time Anderson and I had sex was about six weeks ago, I’m going off of that for an estimation of how far along I am.
But I’m still not completely convinced.
I need to check again.
The positive pregnancy test could explain the intense exhaustion I’ve been feeling, but I haven’t had any other symptoms. No morning sickness, no food aversions, no crazy cravings.
And I’ve been trying to figure out how this is possible—still in a state of denial.
False positives happen.
Probably about as often as getting pregnant while taking birth control pills and using condoms.
I don’t even know what I’m going to do myself, but Anderson deserves to know—I know he’ll let me choose how to move forward, but I just need to be sure it’s actually positive before I tell him—before I decide what I want to do.
False positives happen.
I just need to check again.
Still, it doesn’t really make sense.
I’m practically religious about taking my birth control pill. With a timer on my phone to take it at the same time every morning, never missing one.
I’ve been racking my brain about how this could even be possible.
I look over at Georgie as she stands up from the living room floor, smiling at me as she brings over the cover of the record she bought with Anderson today.
Georgie.
The night she called me.
I always take my pill when I wake up. Always.
But I didn’t even go to sleep that night she called me when I was leaving Anderson’s.
Did I take it before going to work that morning? After I dropped Georgie off at the apartment to get some sleep?
Did I think about taking it and mistake that for actually taking it?
Or did it completely slip my mind?
My brain starts rifling backward, desperate—counting days, routines, pill packs. I’ve been so caught up in Georgie, my mom, and Anderson that I had to have missed one and didn’t realize it, barely even looking at the pack each morning as I move through the motions.
Or maybe I didn’t miss one. Maybe I’m panicking. Maybe the test is wrong. Maybe I counted wrong.
Fuck.
I need to check again.
During dinner, it takes everything in me to stay focused on what’s in front of me. I want to be present for Georgie, but it feels impossible. She tells me all about her weekend with Sadie and her trip to the record store with Anderson, and fills me in on her plans for her week off from school.
Her voice is bright and moving a mile a minute, and listening to her talk and laugh and roll her eyes the way she does has me emotional, my eyes prickling and my nose burning.
She’s so happy.
Her gaze moves to Anderson, asking him if they can go to the record store after her piano lesson tomorrow, and that’s when my brain wins.
But instead of the worst-case scenario, it has me imagining that this pregnancy is real—leading me to let myself pretend this marriage is real.
That it’s the three of us—maybe even the four of us—and every night is just like this.
Anderson’s eyes are on me, and I see his lips moving, but I don’t know what he says, too focused on my own thoughts.
He lifts a brow, his lips curving to a small smirk, and I swear, at that moment, I think he’s reading me like those worn books on the shelves in the living room—understanding me on a level to know where my mind is going.
And there’s something about the way he looks at me that has me wondering when I stopped considering how to fake this whole mess between us.
And started wishing it was real.
After dinner, I head to the bathroom, with the excuse of wanting to shower off the day. In reality, I need to take another pregnancy test.
Locking the door behind me and making sure the door leading to Anderson’s bedroom is closed and locked, I twist the handle three quick times before walking across the bathroom to check the other lock three times.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I repeat, going back and forth, telling myself I don’t have to count to seventeen for both doors. I can count for both in one go. I try to keep my steps light, hoping the music from the record player is loud enough to drown out all the noise.
When I left Georgie and Anderson after the three of us cleaned up from dinner, the two were finding the spots on the floor next to Anderson’s collection of vinyls—spots that I’ve come to consider theirs.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
I resist the urge to do it again, just so I can be absolutely sure the doors are locked, as I lower to my knees to reach into the cabinet under the sink. I hid a bag of at least half a dozen tests I got this morning after Anderson left for work.
When it’s all said and done, I set the timer on my phone next to the face-down test.
And I wait.
If it’s positive, then I have choices.
I could keep the baby.
The thought lands heavy and unfamiliar in my chest, like something fragile I’m afraid to touch too closely.
A baby means rearranging an entire life I’ve spent years carefully controlling. It means telling Anderson and watching his face as the words settle in. It means Georgie, too—figuring out how she fits into something like this, whether she’d be excited or confused or both.
I picture a tiny pair of socks, a car seat in the back of the car, the slow shift of everything I thought the next few years of my life would look like—already having done so when I decided to adopt Georgie.
It means rethinking what this entire marriage means.
And it’s fucking terrifying.
There’s a small, quiet part of me that wonders what it would feel like if it weren’t.
But keeping it isn’t the only option. I could end it before any of that becomes real, before it becomes something with a heartbeat and a nursery and a place in my life I can’t undo.
Women do it every day. It would be my decision—my body, my future. Staying on the track I planned for. Staying within a scope I can control.
Babies are unpredictable and messy, and change every aspect of the life you thought you knew.
Abortion is an option.
There’s something deep inside my heart, telling me that Anderson would support my right to choose—I’m almost certain of that—but the idea still sits heavy in my chest, tangled with confusion and guilt that shouldn’t even belong to me.
Either way, nothing about this is simple. Every path splits into a dozen more, and all of them feel huge and permanent and impossible to think about when I’m still standing here in my bathroom, staring at a test.
One I don’t let myself believe will tell me what I already know.
My timer rings, and my breath catches.
Flipping the test over, I see the two lines, just like I did this morning—but I still don’t believe it.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter, and my chest squeezes.
I inhale slowly, forcing the air all the way down into my lungs, but it doesn’t help. My brain is already racing ahead, pulling apart every possibility, every statistic, every worst-case scenario.
Opening and closing my fists, I start to count, pacing the bathroom floor as panic begins building under my ribs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
My gaze flicks to the test, and I lose count, having to start all over.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five
Six.
The second line is still there. My throat tightens, but I keep counting.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
False positives happen. They do. I read it once—twice, three times—maybe more than that. Tests can be wrong. Evaporation lines. Faulty batches. User error. I’ll take another one tomorrow, and another after that.
But what if they’re all positive?
False positives happen, but do they happen twice?
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
My pulse is hammering so loudly it’s hard to think—I can barely concentrate, so I keep my eyes closed, refusing to see what’s right in front of me.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
My eyes snap open, and I look at the test before I can stop myself, just before I reach seventeen.
“Shit.” The word slips out in a whisper, and the count collapses in on itself.
I squeeze my eyes shut and start again, forcing the numbers through clenched teeth—maybe it’ll help me focus.
One. Two. Three…
If I can just make it to seventeen without looking, then I’ll check again.
Then I’ll know.
Then I’ll decide what to do.