Chapter 24 Maverick
Maverick
I don’t always use the powder room in the hallway, but when I do, I notice things that aren’t supposed to be there.
Like: pregnancy test kinds of things, hidden in the trash.
Not hidden well either. Tucked under crumpled tissue, as if that’s enough to keep someone from spotting it. White stick, blue cap, window clear as day.
What the fuck?
Where did this come from?
The cleaning ladies haven’t been here since Annabelle and I got back. I purposely asked them to skip the week—I wanted time with her. Just us. No schedule. No interruptions. No Polly or Fiona humming along with the vacuum while I try to make a move on my maybe-wife.
And if they had found this? They’d shit a solid gold brick and text me in a panic like they always do when they find random crap in my apartment.
I swallow, heart kicking into high gear.
I reach into the trash without thinking, grabbing the test by one end, completely ignoring the fact that it’s definitely been marinating in pee. My brain’s firing too fast to care.
I bring it closer, scanning the tiny window for that sadistic symbol that either detonates your future or lets you keep living in blissful ignorance. The key on the side shows two lines for pregnant.
My gaze flies to the actual result window.
One line.
Wait. Wait—just one? That means it’s negative! As in: no fucking baby.
I stare at that single line longer than necessary, brain tripping over the possibilities. Not pregnant. Which means I should feel what? Relief. Disappointment? Confusion’s definitely in the top three.
We were careless, fucking with no protection, sure. Reckless? Yeah, maybe too wrapped up in each other to bother with a condom the first few days. Perhaps too confident that we wouldn’t have to deal with any consequences . . .
I exhale.
The pieces click into place from earlier. “This must have been in that bag from the store.”
Duh. Obviously.
Do I ask Annabelle about this?
And . . . what do I fucking say? “Oh hey, noticed a negative pregnancy test when I was about to take a shit in the guest bathroom, know anything about it?”
Yeah, no. That sounds idiotic.
But unfortunately this is all I’m going to be able to think about.
Annabelle doesn’t seem like the careless type—not that I’ve noticed so far in the short amount of time that we’ve been getting to know one another.
And if she hadn’t wanted me to find this, wouldn’t she have hidden it in the trash can in my bathroom?
Or thrown it in the bin under the kitchen counter?
Still, I can’t ignore it.
Do I wait for her to bring it up—and risk her never saying a damn thing about it?
She’s gonna say something, right? Even though the test is negative? She wouldn’t not tell me she thought she was pregnant. Seriously, what made her think to take a test?
Fuck. She must have been freaking out.
I toss the test back into the trash and cover it with a tissue, on the off chance she comes into this bathroom to . . . I don’t fucking know. Check on it?
Then I wash my hands.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I tell my reflection in the mirror before sitting on the toilet for a bit more privacy.
Not yet.
Ten minutes later she’s in the kitchen, rummaging in the pantry like nothing’s wrong. Hair up in a messy knot, cozy robe, humming to herself like she didn’t just maybe pee on a stick and toss it in the guest bathroom trash.
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Hey,” she says, not looking up. “You hungry?”
“Nope. Just . . . wondering how your day’s going.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder. “Since I last saw you a half hour ago?”
“Cool, cool.” I nod, hovering. “Any, uh—surprises?”
She turns. “Like what?”
“Just surprises. Unexpected things. Twists and turns.”
Now she’s suspicious, and she squints her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you did something?”
I lean on the counter. “I’m not. But hypothetically—if someone had a secret. Something important. Kind of health adjacent? Possibly involving, oh—I don’t know—a store run and a brief moment of panic?”
She freezes.
Gotcha.
“What the hell are you even talking about?” Annabelle turns her back again and takes down a bag of popcorn.
“I don’t know—what do you think I’m talking about?”
She scoffs, still not facing me. “You are being so annoying.”
“Annoying?” I feign offense. “Wow. I thought I was being inquisitive. Curious. Intellectually engaged.”
“No, you’re being weird.” She rips open the popcorn bag and tosses it in the microwave, sets it for three minutes, poking the button in an irritated fashion.
I stroll to the fridge, open it, grab a soda, simply so I can brush my arms against her. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to have a baby with a terrible name? Like Peach or Maverick Junior?”
She freezes. “Why would I wonder that?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Just seems like a thing people think about. When they’re at the store. Buying snacks.”
We wait in silence. The microwave beeps. She opens it, snatches the bag out, and gives it a shake with more aggression than necessary.
“You know what else is wild?” I say casually, popping the soda tab. “How babies can’t hold their own heads up for months. Like—evolution really dropped the ball on that one.”
She freezes mid-shake. “Callum.”
I love it when she uses my real name. Have I mentioned that enough times?
“Seriously. You ever try holding a six-pound meat loaf that randomly flails and screams and shits itself?”
She stares at me, blinking.
I take a sip. “Not that I’ve done that, obviously. Just saying. Something to think about.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why would I be thinking about meat loaf babies?”
My shoulders shrug. “It’s two things I love—meat loaf and babies.”
She slams the popcorn bag on the counter. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking in riddles—”
“Okay, okay.” I raise my hands in surrender. “No riddles. Just hypotheticals. Like: What would be worse—a baby who pukes all the time, or one who only sleeps when being held with ocean sounds in the background?”
She groans and finally rips the popcorn open, the steam cloud puffing up like it’s trying to escape the awkward energy in the room.
I lean against the counter. “Do you like the name Poppy?”
She levels me with a long, suspicious look like she’s trying to figure out whether I’ve been body snatched or recently concussed as she dumps the popcorn into a serving bowl.
Then, without a word, she grabs the bowl and walks right past me, robe swishing dramatically as she heads into the living room.
I follow. Obviously.
She settles onto the couch and pulls a blanket over her lap. I flop down next to her, careful not to knock the popcorn out of her hands. That would be fatal.
“Truce?” I ask.
She offers me the bowl. I take that as a yes.
We sit in silence for a minute, crunching as she points the remote at the television. Then, because I’ve lost the ability to leave well enough alone, I clear my throat. “So for real. Do you want kids someday?”
Her hand pauses mid-reach for another kernel. “Are we still hypothetically speaking?”
“No,” I say. “This is me asking you for real.”
She sighs. “I don’t know. I used to think I didn’t. Then I was sure I did. Now I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.”
She eyes me warily. “Do you?”
I’m awesome. “Yeah. I think I’d be good at it.”
She shakes her head, but her smile lingers. “You’d really want all that? Sleepless nights? Diaper blowouts? Sippy cups leaking in your car?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say quietly. “Eventually.”
Her face softens.
“Not because I want to tick some box, or because I think I’m supposed to. I like the idea of building something with someone. A family. It’s what my parents have,” I say. “They’re still together after.”
She glances over, eyebrows raised. “A rarity these days.”
I nod. “Met in high school. My dad was a total dipshit—still is—and my mom swears she only went on a date with him because he only stuttered when she was around and she thought it was adorable.”
“Is he tall too?”
I shrug. “Nah, I’m the beast in my family.
My brother Parker is tall but not as tall as I am.
” I puff out my chest as I brag about my height.
I pick up a kernel and toss it into the air, catch it in my mouth.
“They fought, sure. Sometimes loud. Sometimes not talking for days. But they always showed up for each other. Always chose each other again and again.”
She leans her head against the back of the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I didn’t really grow up with that—I feel like my parents never spent time together because they were always working.”
I let that sit for a beat. “That sounds lonesome for a kid.”
“It was. I didn’t notice it at the time, but now I look back and realize I never actually saw what a relationship was supposed to look like. They’re basically like roommates at this point.”
I shift, turning so I can look at her. “That’s heavy, babe.”
“It is what it is.” She pulls the blanket tighter around her legs, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching. “You, on the other hand, seem like you’d be the kind of dad who packs snacks for everyone.”
“For sure.”
“And brings the wrong diaper bag to day care.”
“Obviously.” I smile.
“And cries at kindergarten graduation.”
“I’d cry during the application process.”
She studies me before announcing, “You’d be a good dad.”
Damn right I would. “Thanks. I don’t need it to happen tomorrow or anything. Just . . . someday. And only if the person I’m doing it with wants it too.”
She looks at me for a long second. “What if that person doesn’t know what they want?”
“Then they don’t know what they want.”
Annabelle is quiet a few more seconds. “How did we get on this topic?”
“I’m capable of depth.”
She rolls her eyes, the front of her robe parting in the most delicious, mouthwatering way. I do my best to keep my eyes on her face and not her tits, but it’s, like, kind of hard.
They’re right there, smug and soft and ruining my ability to form coherent thoughts.
Focus. Eye contact. Respectful, grown-up behavior.
“Depth? You spent the first minute of this conversation naming fake babies . . .”