Chapter 37
AVA
It’s been a week since I took that first pregnancy test.
I’ve taken thirty-four tests, ranging from the bulk test strips to the fancy digital ones, since then.
Seventeen wasn’t enough, and I still don’t know if seventeen twice is enough.
But they’re all positive.
I don’t know how many more I’ll have to take before I am entirely convinced, but I refuse to buy another test.
I’m supposed to be meeting Anderson at Georgie’s first soccer game of the spring season in an hour, but I don’t know how I’m going to face him—Rumi and Emerson too.
Everyone is coming out to cheer Georgie on, and this secret feels like hundreds of pounds pressing down on my chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep it to myself—but the longer I do, the more I go back and forth about what I want to do.
I want to get all of it out of my head so I can figure out what I want to do.
And Anderson deserves to know.
Right?
With Georgie home for Spring Break this last week, the two of us have been working opposite schedules—when I’m at work, he’s home. When he’s on shift, I’m home as much as I can. We’ve barely seen each other.
And the times we are home at the same time, I haven’t wanted to pop the bubble.
The “perfect little family” bubble.
Anderson hasn’t tried to pop it either—it’s like the two of us have this understanding that if we don’t talk about what we’re doing, then we can just exist in it.
I’m finishing up a few inventory orders when my phone rings; Patricia’s contact popping up on my screen.
My stomach flips as I answer before the second ring can even sound. “Patricia, hi.” I hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I tidy up my desk, putting all the paperwork in the color-coded folders I keep in my bottom-left drawer and closing any unnecessary tabs still open on my desktop.
“Hi, Ava,” she greets in that familiar gentle voice.
Is she calling with good news? With updates? Her voice sounds light, like she might even be smiling.
Or, maybe she’s calling because something went wrong with the adoption—maybe her voice sounds like this because she is about to let me down easily. Maybe they somehow figured out that my marriage to Anderson is fake.
Or that I’m pregnant.
And how irresponsible I am—getting into a sham marriage and getting knocked up all within two months.
My thoughts race, and part of me recognizes how silly these thoughts are. But there’s another part of me that doesn’t care how ridiculous it all sounds because it believes them.
“I have some good news,” Patricia continues, but even as she says the words, the tension in my body doesn’t lessen. I feel the prickling in my fingertips, the restlessness in my legs, and the constriction of my lungs.
“Okay,” I manage to say, and if she hears the unease in my voice, she doesn’t mention it.
“We finalized all the necessary background checks and safety screenings, and everything looks good,” she says, but I don’t say anything, needing her to continue. I don’t think I’ll feel any relief until I know everything she’s calling to say.
My head nods, even though she can’t see me as she continues, each pad of my finger meeting my thumb, the counting coming even more natural than breathing. “And we officially have a court date scheduled. Does April 30th work for you?” she asks.
I’m about to take a deeper breath than when I first answered her call, but I still feel that anxious energy buzzing just beneath my skin, like an electric current reminding me that assurance, a sense of calm, the idea of relief, is always just temporary.
I clear my throat, suddenly thick with emotion. “Yes, that works.”
“Wonderful! It should be a relatively quick hearing. No more than an hour.”
“What exactly does it entail?” I ask carefully, my fingers continuing to tap my thumb in quick succession, going in order from pointer finger to pinky before reversing the pattern.
“A judge will review all the documentation before swearing you in as the adoptive parent,” she explains.
“He’ll confirm that the adoption is in the child’s best interest, and then he’ll sign the final adoption decree.
It’s a closed court proceeding, but you’re welcome to invite other family or friends to attend. ”
“O-okay, sounds good,” I manage to say, a little too stunned to speak.
I can’t believe it.
She goes on, continuing to explain the final court hearing, but it all sounds muffled as my thoughts grow louder and louder.
We did it.
I haven’t heard a peep from my mom since that one phone call, just before she gave up her parental rights of Georgie, and Patricia hasn’t said anything about being contacted by her either.
I thought it would make me more upset or angry—more for Georgie than for myself—but it’s a relief.
And now that the adoption is so close to being official, there’s no part of me that regrets blocking my mom’s number and cutting ties. For me, and for Georgie.
Georgie will be mine—officially mine—in three weeks.
Which means we’re three weeks away from no longer needing to pretend this marriage was anything more than a means to an end.
My breaths come in more and more shallow—I somehow manage to continue the conversation with Patricia enough for her not to know I’m falling apart here on the other end. When we say our goodbyes, my lungs are burning with the need for a full breath.
If this whole marriage was supposed to be fake—why does the thought of ending feel so real?
“Go, Georgie!” Emerson cups her hands around her mouth, cheering as Georgie blocks another attempt at the goal, her dirty blonde hair braided back out of her face, her light blue jersey sticking out among the rest of the navy jerseys that surround her.
Her smile is as bright as her teammates gather around her, offering her high fives and wide grins before the referee blows the whistle to get the next play started. Jack claps as Anderson lets out a loud whoop over our cheering.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I find Phoebe and Jasmine both responding in our group chat. I texted them after Patricia called with our court date, and they both are ecstatic to hear that Georgie will be with me, permanently.
I’ve been sending them updates since telling them what happened a few days after I picked up Georgie from our mom’s, and I can’t even begin to explain the relief I felt when I sent them this final update about the court date that will make everything official.
“Glad we got good weather for this,” Rumi says to me as she shifts Evee from one hip to the other. We’re standing down by the goal to make sure we can clearly see all of Georgie’s plays, out in the sun rather than under the shade covering the bleachers where the rest of the families are sitting.
“April really can be a hit or miss when it comes to sun,” Emerson adds, as the girls get in position for the next play.
I nod, distracted. I’m trying to focus on Georgie and being present here for her with my friends, but my eyes keep roaming toward Anderson, where he stands next to Jack, as far as they can go.
Their feet inches from the white spray-painted field lines.
They already got a warning from the ref that they were getting too close to the field, me, Emerson, and Rumi laughing at how seriously the two are taking a U-13 soccer game—Anderson, especially.
His eyes haven’t left Georgie for more than a few seconds, only to look just over his shoulder, meeting my eyes as if he can feel when I look at him.
His strong arms are crossed over his chest, aside from when he takes off his hat to run his fingers through the shaggy waves before pressing the hat back on. He does it every time it looks like the ball is headed Georgie’s way.
“Can you stop eyefucking your husband for two seconds and answer me?” Emerson’s voice catches me off guard, causing me to feel like I was caught with my hand in my pants. I didn’t even realize I was staring at Anderson until I turned toward Emerson and Rumi to find both of them smirking at me.
“What?” I offer, trying for nonchalance, hoping it doesn’t come off too forced. “Can’t a girl find her husband attractive?”
As I say the words, my stomach flips. I’ve found myself using any excuse to refer to Anderson as my husband, and it’s a habit I already know I’m going to have a hard time breaking.
Emerson rolls her eyes as Rumi shakes her head, smiling down at Evee as she claps her hands as the whistle blows, signaling half-time for the girls.
Anderson turns and closes the distance between us. “I’m going to go make sure Georgie has enough water. Do you need anything?”
His thoughtfulness will never get old, his attentiveness to not only me but also Georgie makes my heart clench almost uncomfortably.
“I’m okay,” I answer, rolling my lips together to not only hide the they want to turn up—also to stop myself from blurting out I’m pregnant, the way I’ve wanted to do since getting here and immediately finding him walking Georgie toward the field, her soccer bag hung over one shoulder and a cooler in his hand as the two of them walked through the grass.
When I’m alone, the thought of Anderson and the possibility of a future with him has me spiraling, counting until my mind goes numb.
Doing anything and everything to make my surroundings perfect, finding order and that “just right” feeling so I can have a moment of relief in the form of clarity within my own mind.
But when I’m with him, it’s like all of that gets pushed to the back of my mind—still there but much softer, easier to ignore.
I talked about it in therapy—my therapist knows the same story that we told Rumi and Emerson, and she offered that Anderson might be a safe, grounding presence for me, and that can often reduce anxiety or help me focus on the moment at hand, rather than the obsessive fear of whatever I’m worried is coming for me.