Chapter 31
HOLLY
A FEW WEEKS LATER. SEPTEMBER.
Iwake up aching.
Not physically. Just… off.
Last night, Dexter stayed in the office again, working late for the third night in a row, while I gave up and went to bed early.
I didn’t even bother with dinner, just crawled into bed and passed out.
I’d promised myself a big breakfast in the morning, but now that I’m up, nothing sounds good.
My stomach turns at just the idea of food.
I tell myself I’m being dramatic. Tired, emotional, a little overwhelmed, and the stupid storms and heat waves aren’t exactly helping.
Probably just missing Dexter more than I care to admit.
The thought of leaving him used to make me nervous.
Now the thought of leaving him makes my chest ache like hell.
It sneaks up on me, deep and painful, and I have to blink hard to stop myself from crying.
Then it hits me.
I sit up, slowly.
When was my last period?
It takes me a second to remember where I put my phone. Then another ten seconds for the app to load. I curse at it under my breath. Finally, the numbers appear.
And there it is. Two days late.
Not a huge deal, unless you’re me. I’m never late.
My thumbs move faster than my brain.
Me:
I’m late.
Dexter:
What else is new?
Seriously?
Me:
No. Late late.
Half a minute passes. Men.
Dexter:
On my way.
And just like that, I’m up, flying out of bed and into the bathroom. I’ve got one test left. It’s in the cabinet, waiting. I unwrap it slowly, hands trembling just a little. A few moments later I hear the front door open.
His boots hit the hardwood, each step deliberate and unhurried. Yep, that’s Dexter. I hear heavy steps coming down the hall.
Knock. Knock-knock.
“You in there?”
I crack the door open. “I haven’t taken it yet. I’m scared,” I admit with a small smile. “I was sure last time. And I was wrong.”
“We’ll deal with it. Either way.” He tips my chin up. “I’ll wait right outside.”
I nod. “Good.”
He leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead and pulls back with a crooked smile. “Whatever it says, we’re fine.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
I close the door, pee on the stick, wash my hands. Knowing he’s sitting out there in his hoodie and torn jeans, face focused in that Dexter way, but calm, always calm, makes me breathe easier. When I’m done, I walk back out, test in hand, and place it face-down on the nightstand.
I sit beside him on the bed.
“How long does it take?” he asks.
“Three minutes.”
I count my breaths. His thumb brushes once across my knuckles. Two minutes in, I’m already reaching. He looks at his watch and says, “Not yet. Three.” Honestly, only Dexter would micromanage a pregnancy test.
At two and a half minutes, I start fidgeting, fingers drumming against my thigh.
He traps my restless hand in his palm, stilling it, and says, “Fuck it. We’re not waiting the full three. Let’s see.”
I nod hastily, grip his hand tighter, and turn over the test.
Two red lines.
I blink. Once, twice, to make sure I’m reading it right. I am.
My breath catches. “Dexter…”
Dexter’s eyes lock on mine, and he looks like he just won something impossible. “You’re pregnant, baby.”
“I’m pregnant.”
His mouth curves slow. “Yeah, you are. Told you I’m Daddy. No arguing now.”
The laugh that bursts out of me is half sob, half disbelief. I throw my arms around him and kiss him without thinking. I can feel his mouth smiling against mine, one strong arm wrapped around my back, the other cradling my head like I might break.
I can barely breathe. I feel like I could cry, or float, or both.
For a second, the whole world is just this.
This perfect.
When my brain finally catches up, I realize I’m still kissing him. With tongue. With heat. With his hands still there. And that definitely wasn’t part of the deal.
When I finally pull away, flustered, I mumble, “Sorry. That wasn’t part of the baby-making protocol.”
He doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t apologize.”
“But—”
“Don’t.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing along my jaw. His voice drops. “We’re having a baby.”
We.
Not you.
That hits me, right in the chest. God. This man.
“Okay. Okay. I need to get it together,” I breathe, pulling back. “There’s so much to do. Do you know how much baby stuff exists? I need to make a list. Oh God, I need a new notebook. And diapers. And bottles. And…”
I’m rambling.
“Slow down. Make an appointment, that’s step one. Confirm it officially.”
“Right, good idea. Phone. Where’s my phone?”
I turn in a useless little circle.
“Bed,” he says, pointing. “And stop twirling, you’ll make yourself sick. Or me.”
Too late. My stomach flips and I freeze.
“Told you,” he mutters, guiding me to sit. He caresses my cheek tenderly, then grabs the phone and presses it into my hand. “Now call your doctor. And then you’re going to eat.”
“Food sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Doesn’t matter. You still need to eat.”
I look up at him. Hoodie, jeans, bare feet planted in my bedroom, and I melt a little. “Thanks, Dexter.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Anytime.”
After he leaves the room, I sit with the test in my lap and a head full of static. I’m pregnant. Dexter and I made a baby. And I kissed him.
I know. I know, it shouldn’t be a big deal. We’ve had sex, plenty of it. But that kiss… that was different. That was real.
My phone’s still in my hand.
I breathe through the aftershock, pull up my doctor’s info, and get the call made. I have bigger fish to fry. Like not vomiting.
Which I absolutely do the second I step into the kitchen and smell the eggs.