Chapter 27 Annabelle
Annabelle
This is it.
The day we tell our families.
I’m still in Arizona—technically not in hiding, but let’s be honest: I’ve been in witness protection mode ever since I found out I was pregnant. Two positive tests, followed by at least four more.
No bump yet. No glow, either, unless you count the sweat from nausea. But it’s real. It’s happening.
And it’s time.
I watch Maverick across the room as he wraps up a call with his agent.
Something about optics and keeping it “classy” until the official statement.
He’s nodding, listening intently, while I’m busy freaking out because he’d just shown me the text from his mom confirming she and his dad were available for a FaceTime in ten minutes.
Cue internal screaming.
It’s not that we don’t love our parents—we do. It’s just . . . we haven’t exactly told them about any of this. The wedding. The baby. It did not cross my mind for one second that my personal life would become national news.
Look, we were going to tell them eventually, ideally at our own pace.
This whole thing feels like a reality dating show—Love Island: Oops, We Got Married. One minute we’re strangers, then fake married, then somehow falling for each other in between prenatal vitamins and late-night Taco Bell because suddenly I have cravings.
Anyway.
I hadn’t wanted to call my folks and be like, “Hey, remember how you always warned me about fast-moving relationships and were elated when I dumped Tim? Plot twist! I’m seeing someone new and expecting, ha ha, how has your week been?”
I wanted to wait to say anything to anyone until I was sure. Lucy doesn’t count.
Now here I am, about to meet Mr. and Mrs. McBride.
Maverick clicks his phone off and looks at me, eyes soft. “You ready?”
No. Not even a little. “Sure.”
Here goes nothing . . .
Maverick slips his arm around my shoulders as we walk toward the living room, where his laptop is propped open on the coffee table. The screen is already connected to our call—camera off, thank God—but I can hear the faint sound of laughter.
Shit.
He gives me a squeeze. “They’re excited to meet you. Don’t panic.”
I give him a tight smile. “I’m not panicking.”
I am absolutely panicking.
He clicks the camera on, and suddenly, there they are. His mom has the same mischievous grin he does and is waving at the screen like she’s spotted us in a crowd. Giddy.
His dad—more stoic in a gruff but charming way—nods once before leaning in closer to squint at the screen as if he can’t see us clearly.
“Is this her?” his mom all but squeals. “Oh, aren’t you darling! Look at those cheekbones! And your hair—Callum, you didn’t tell us she was this pretty!”
Maverick chuckles. “Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. This is Annabelle.”
“Annabelle!” She beams. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
Lies. They’ve heard nothing about me, short of what they’ve seen on television, and even then, they weren’t certain any of it was true. They didn’t even know I existed in any official capacity.
“It’s so lovely to meet you,” I say, because I was raised right and also I’m terrified.
His dad tilts his head. “So, how long have you two been seeing each other, then?”
Maverick opens his mouth.
I open mine faster. “About a month?”
Ish. If you’re being generous and adding some weeks—but who’s counting? Ha.
His mom clutches her chest like she’s on the verge of fainting—but in a very enthusiastic, giddy way. “A month! Oh my goodness. And already so smitten, I can tell!”
Smitten. Such a mom thing to say . . .
His dad raises a brow, clearly trying to compute the math, but says nothing. Sips from what I suspect is a scotch glass and gives Maverick a noncommitted nod.
“We saw something about you both on the news,” his mom admits, voice dropping to a whisper like she’s about to reveal a secret. “Honestly, I thought it might’ve been a fake story.”
“Or AI,” his dad adds dryly. “You know how they fake celebrity couples now.”
Maverick snorts. “Nope. We’re together.”
“Annabelle,” his mom says. “Tell us more about yourself—where are you from?”
This is an easy one, and I relax into the couch cushions.
“Washington. That’s where we met.” I pause.
“It’s a funny story how we met, actually.
Mav . . . I mean, Callum and I were both booked in the same cabin.
He found me sleeping in a hammock in his front yard—but I thought it was my front yard. The whole thing was . . .”
“Fate,” he says, smiling, leaning in to kiss my temple.
His mother’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile, but I can also tell she’s trying hard not to roll her eyes. “Sounds like something out of a Hallmark movie.”
“Oh, it was,” I say brightly. “Except with way more cursing.”
His dad chuckles at that, shoulders relaxing slightly. “So you were strangers. Total strangers?”
“Yup.” I nod. “It was supposed to be a solo rest and relaxation trip for me—very Eat Pray Love—and he was there to rehab. But we’d booked the same weekend, same house, same poor communication from the owner.”
“Who still hasn’t emailed us back, by the way.”
“Speaking of your knee.” His mom changes the subject. “Is it healing all right?”
“Yup. It’s fine, Mum,” he says with a smile that somehow manages to be both charming and exasperated. “Better than fine, actually. No pain.”
His dad leans in. “You keeping up with rehab exercises? Doing the stretches?”
Maverick gives him a look. “Yes, Dad. I’m not ten years old.”
“Ten-year-old you refused to ice anything and once played an entire season with a broken toe,” he replies without missing a beat. “Forgive me if I check in.”
“I’m icing regularly,” he says, then winks. “Annabelle makes sure of it.”
His parents gaze on with approval.
I smile, feeling a little less like I’m about to burst into nervous tears. “He’s a terrible patient, but I do my best.”
His mom clasps her hands under her chin. “Oh, you remind me of Victoria. That’s Callum’s brother Ronan’s wife.”
“Vic has the patience of a saint,” his dad mutters fondly.
“She has to,” his mom replies. “Married to Ronan and raising two boys under the age of six. It’s like running a zoo.”
“More like surviving one,” his dad chimes in.
Maverick chuckles. “How are the little shitheads?”
“Rowdy as ever,” his mom says. “Adorable. We’re thinking of visiting them next month,” she continues, directing the comment to both of us now. “You’re more than welcome to come along. The boys would love to meet their uncle’s . . . girlfriend?”
She says it delicately, giving me an out.
I glance at him. He smirks into the computer’s camera.
Here we go.
I sit perfectly still on the edge of Maverick’s couch cushion like it might eject me if I make one wrong move. I am literally on the edge of my seat, palms pressed against my thighs, rubbing them up and down. Legs crossed.
I’m smiling way too brightly—my face is starting to cramp—and all I can think about is how there is absolutely no protocol for moments like this.
Like, what’s the proper order when you’re about to casually inform someone’s parents that their son (a) got married by strangers, (b) to a woman they’ve never met, and (c) also a baby is on its way?
Do you lead with the marriage part to soften the blow? Or do you start with the pregnancy and let them be grateful we’re married?
“So.” He clears his throat. “Did you happen to see the story about me and Annabelle on the news?”
His mom leans in closer to their laptop screen. “The one about the wedding?” She says it slowly, as if there’s more to decode and she wants to figure it out before her son gives her the ending. “At first we thought it was a PR stunt. Or one of those TikTok couples who fake engagements to go viral.”
“Right?” his dad adds. “Didn’t seem real. We’d have gotten photos or an announcement at least. Nothing but a headline and blurry images of you two in the woods at a wedding, and we know you were on that rehab retreat.”
Definitely did not seem real to me either.
Maverick shrugs like we’re discussing brunch plans. “Well . . . there is no marriage certificate filed, but . . .”
His mother hangs on his unfinished sentence, brows in her hairline.
“We’re going to try and make it work.”
His mom’s lips part, her face caught somewhere between supportive and amazed and “what in the McFuck have you done.” His dad guzzles from his water bottle.
“And you two . . . like each other?” his mom asks delicately, obviously afraid to use the word L-O-V-E. As if one of us will spook.
Maverick doesn’t hesitate. “Aye. I like her.”
His mom gives him a long, searching look, as if gauging the sarcasm level or sincerity—which, to be fair, is always kind of difficult to ascertain.
He grins and turns to me. “I more than like her.”
Awww.
“He’s all right,” I mutter, which makes his dad bark out a surprised laugh.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, setting his bottle down. “I was worried this was a hostage situation.”
“Blink twice if you’re in danger.” His mom laughs, half serious.
I hold up three fingers and deadpan, “I married a man who eats peanut butter straight from the jar. Send help.”
Maverick slings his arm around my shoulder. “You love it.”
“Debatable.”
“We’re glad you’re both okay,” his mom continues. “That you’ve got each other. We didn’t know what to think when we saw the headlines—we figured if it was serious, you’d call, but . . . you’re grown. We didn’t want to interfere.”
“And now we know.” His dad scratches his head. “Still processing how it works without a marriage certificate and calling each other husband and wife, but all right.”
Maverick shares a look with me—one of those telepathic “should we just rip off the Band-Aid” kinds of looks—so I know what’s coming next.
Oh God.
Here comes plot twist number two.
His hand squeezes my thigh. “Not to dump a shit ton on ye, but . . .” He sits up straight, sliding his arm around the back of me. “There’s one more thing.”
“One more thing?” his mom echoes, blinking.
“We didn’t plan for it,” Maverick says gently, and now I feel every nerve ending in my body light up like it’s bracing for impact. “But . . . we’re expecting.”
Silence.
Not just quiet—true, soul-splitting silence.
You could hear a pin drop.
I suddenly wish the earth would swallow me whole. Or that I could crawl into Maverick’s hoodie and live there forever like a crab in its shell. I stare at the coffee table, then at my lap, then out the window at a rooftop deck somewhere in the distance.
“I know it’s a lot,” Maverick says softly. “And it all happened fast. But it’s real. And we’re happy.”
Still silent on the other end. His mum blinks. His dad sips again. I brace for judgment. For questions. For an offer to send a priest or maybe just a pamphlet on abstinence.
Then his mom exhales. “Well.”
Maverick and I both tense up.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” she says, polite but distant, like someone congratulating a stranger on winning a raffle. “It’s just . . . a lot to take in.”
“We understand,” I say quickly, trying to meet her eyes through the screen. “And for the record, I had no idea who Maverick was when I met him. Like . . . zero clue.”
His dad leans forward. “You didn’t recognize him?”
“Not even a little,” I admit. “All I knew was that he was in the cabin I rented—and I was in his.”
His mom gives a short, nervous laugh, then smooths out the strays of her dark hair. “Well, I suppose that’s a relief to hear. You never know sometimes with women . . .”
“I didn’t pursue him for who he was,” I say in all seriousness. “I wasn’t trying to trap him or anything like that. Believe me, this wasn’t how I expected my weekend to end.”
“We believe you,” she says after a thoughtful pause. “It’s just . . . you have to understand where we’re coming from. One minute he’s at rehab. The next there are wedding photos online, and now we find out you’re having a baby.”
A baby.
Before thinking twice, I place a hand on my stomach. Protectively.
“We’re still getting used to it too,” Maverick adds, squeezing my hand. “But we’re excited.”
His dad finally puts down his water bottle. “So let me get this straight—you’re not legally married, but you’re living together, and you’re having a baby?”
Mav nods. “Yup.”
His dad just stares at us for a beat, processing. Then he lets out a low whistle. “Your mother is going to need a brandy after this.” Him too.
“I thought this was the brandy conversation,” his mom jokes, looking dazed. “Do we even have brandy?”
“You do now,” Maverick quips, trying to ease the tension. “That would make a great baby name. Brandy McBride—has a nice ring to it.”
I want to give him a shove but don’t want to do it in front of his parents. “Don’t even think about it.”
Maverick grins at me, than his parents, completely unfazed by my glare. “Too late. I’m already picturing her with a teeny-tiny leather jacket.”
His mom watches us, wide eyed. “You always did keep us on our toes.”
“I am nothing if not predictable,” Maverick laughs.
“You’ve both certainly given us a lot to talk about.” She looks at her husband, then back at us.
“That’s one way to put it,” his dad mutters.
“But,” she continues, eyes locking with mine through the screen. “We’re here. And we’ll support you both however we can.”
“Especially the baby,” his dad adds. “Someone in this family’s got to have a stable moral compass. Might as well start with the next generation.”
“Ignore him,” she says, reaching to swat her husband’s arm off-screen. “We’re just—surprised, that’s all. But you two seem . . .” She hesitates. “Happy.”
“We are,” I agree, because somehow that feels important to say out loud. “Happy.”
Maverick nods, arm draped along the back of the couch behind me. “And we’re figuring it out as we go. Together.”
His parents exchange a glance—one of those long married-people glances that says an entire conversation without words—and then his mom smiles.
“Okay, you two,” she says, clasping her hands. “We’ll let you get on with your evening. Send updates. Pictures, before they show up on SportsCenter—we want to be involved, not just spectators.”
“Deal,” Maverick says, already reaching to click the call off. “Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. Love you guys.”
“Bye now,” his dad says, squinting at the camera like it personally offends him. “Love you.”
“Goodbye, Annabelle,” his mom adds, warmer this time. “Take care of yourself. And my son.”
I nod, throat tight. “I will.”
The screen goes dark.
We sit in silence for a beat, staring at the blank laptop, basking in the quiet, thinking of what to say next.
Maverick turns to me, brow raised. “That wasn’t terrible?”
“I only sweat through half my shirt.” My giggle comes out sounding anxious. “Could’ve gone worse.”
“See? Total win.”