Chapter 25 Annabelle
Annabelle
“I think he found the pregnancy test.”
I’m back on the phone with Lucy, pacing the primary bedroom, after washing up from our couch fuck fest. My little lap dance—or whatever we’re calling it—that led to one mind-blowing orgasm.
Mmm . . .
I pause at the mirror, inspecting my hair. Still a sex-wrecked mess. I don’t bother fixing it.
“You left a pregnancy test in his trash can?” my best friend deadpans, clearly disgusted with me.
“Yes.” I nod. “Left it in the trash like an idiot. But in my defense, it’s the guest bathroom in the hallway and I never see him go in it!”
She doesn’t attempt to be helpful. “You are so bad at being sneaky.” I hear her exhale. “Did we not discuss waiting so the two of you can take the test together?”
“Yes, yes we did,” I admit, dragging a hand down my face. “I’m sorry I didn’t stick with the plan, but I couldn’t help myself.”
“You are so impatient.”
“I know!” I nibble on my bottom lip as the scene plays over in my head like a movie reel.
Me, stomach twisting. Maverick in the shower.
Me and the bag from the drugstore, alone together.
Five minutes of my frantic phone call to Lucy followed by one second of impulsive panic.
Then I was sitting on the toilet seat, taking the damn thing like I was on a time crunch.
“If it makes you feel better, I meant to go back for it!” I protest. “But then he got out of the shower, and he was sexy and slick and glistening and smelled so fucking good and then there was popcorn and laughing and the situation on the couch—”
“You’re babbling.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Okay. Let’s get back on track,” Lucy says. “What makes you think he knows you took a pregnancy test?”
“He wasn’t acting normal—and by normal I mean, goofy and funny and broody. He was . . .” I stop and think. “Asking me about baby names and shit.”
Lucy’s silent for a beat. “Okay, go on.”
“He brought up Halloween costumes for his imaginary future children. Oh! And then—he said he likes the idea of building a family someday. A family.”
Lucy lets out a low whistle. “And you’re sure he’s not just . . . that into you?”
“I mean, yes, he’s into me.” I wave my hand like that’s a given. “We literally came on the couch at the same time fifteen minutes ago.”
“So romantic.”
“Shut up.”
Lucy sighs. “So how are you going to fix this?”
I flop backward dramatically. “I don’t know! If I bring it up and he didn’t see it, I’ll look insane. And if he did see it and I don’t say anything, then I look like I’m playing some manipulative long game.”
My best friend makes a pfft sound. “You kind of are.”
I gasp. “Can you please be helpful for Once in Your Life?”
She gasps back at me. “Excuse me? I’m always helpful! I am the calm, chill friend—you are the one peeing in garbage cans of a man you got drunk with and married at another person’s wedding and it ended up all over the news!”
That shuts me right up. “Hmm. You do make a valid point.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “I love you, but if you don’t go talk to this man soon, I’m going to drive over there myself and hand deliver him all your secrets on a silver platter.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Lucy says sweetly.
She would, actually. She absolutely would. Because that’s what best friends are for: emotional blackmail via threats of silver-platter truth bombs.
“All right. So how do I find out for sure if he knows I took the pregnancy test?”
There’s a beat.
“Let me think for two seconds.” She hums, slipping into full chaos-strategist mode. “Oh! Okay. I’ve got it—you have two options.”
“Hit me.” I’m ready.
Go.
“One: You casually ask if he took out the trash lately. Then watch him to see what he does. If he flinches, bingo! Guilty. If he stares at you like he has no idea on earth what you’re talking about, he probably didn’t see it.”
“Eh.” Don’t love that. “What’s option two?”
“You stage a fake discovery. Go into the guest bathroom and pretend you saw it for the first time. Gasp. Say something dramatic like ‘Oh my God, what’s this doing here?’ And see what he does.”
That is truly horrifying. I’m a terrible actress. “Lucy, I am not pulling a reverse Scooby-Doo reveal on a pregnancy test.”
“Fine,” she says. “Option three.”
Oh goody. “There’s a third?”
“Of course.” She pauses. “You put your big-girl sweatpants on, walk into the living room, and say, ‘Hey, remember how we had lots and lots and lots of unprotected sex? I may have panicked and taken a test in your guest bathroom and forgot to dispose of it like a civilized human?’ And then see what he says.”
“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “That makes me sound like an asshole.”
“I’ll bring the platter.”
“Lucy—”
“I’ll polish it,” she threatens.
“Stop.”
“Should I add a lace napkin under the pee stick, or do we want to keep it rustic?” I can practically hear her tapping her chin in thought.
“This is all easier said than done.”
“Annabelle—as far as the world knows, you’re married to this man.”
True.
I stand from the bed and walk to the mirror, giving myself another once-over, adjusting the mop on top of my head.
“Oh!” She gasps. “Option four!”
“I’m listening.” With bated breath.
“You tell him you didn’t get your period and that you went to the pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test—then you take another one, pretending you’re taking it for the first time.”
“Lucy.” I inhale. “That is genius.”
“I know! He doesn’t know that you know he knows!”
Exactly!
My stomach lurches—from nerves or excitement and all the things.
For sure nerves.
’Cause what else could it possibly be?
I hang up with Lucy and go to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Adjust the bun on top of my head again, brushing it and tidying it up. Wash my hands.
Then make the slow, funeral-march-style walk from the bedroom to the living room, where Maverick is sitting on the couch calmly. Relaxed. One sock on, one sock off. Legs stretched out, feet up on the coffee table. Not a care in the world . . .
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Hey.” He pats the cushion next to him. “You feeling okay?”
That’s the problem—I have no idea how I’m feeling.
For a few glorious minutes, when we were tangled up on the couch and I was grinding on him like a woman with no secrets, I forgot. Forgot about my missing period. Forgot about the pee stick in the trash. Forgot about our half-joking conversation about having kids.
And I definitely do not give a crap about the media.
Which—to be fair—hasn’t impacted me yet. We’re still living in our blissful bubble.
Call me naive, but I don’t have much of a public social media presence even though I have a small business, and let’s be honest: I come from such a small town, nobody there is going to care that I accidentally married a professional athlete. Right?
Just the men, maybe?
No one will care . . .
Or is this me being naive?
Being a resort town, we’ve had our fair share of sightings of famous people over the years, because they come to Star Lake to escape.
Like the time Denzel Washington rented a cottage and was spotted in Loon Landing Café grabbing a latte with his wife.
Or the time that one country singer, whose name I can’t remember, made a pit stop for a night on his way to Portland.
No one bothered them.
My point is, Star Lake is a town where no one bothers anyone and residents don’t lock their car doors and we sleep with our windows open in the summer.
So no one will care.
I do my best to convince myself of this as I plop down next to him, the weight of the world suddenly on my shoulders. We stare at the TV, neither of us actually watching it, before I blurt out, “I didn’t get my period.”
Maverick turns his head so fast I’m genuinely concerned his spine just filed a complaint. “What?”
I clear my throat, gaze fixed straight ahead. “I—I was late. Like, really late. And I freaked out and went to the pharmacy—”
“Okay.” His voice is gentle, his expression unreadable. “Keep going.”
“Anyway. It’s probably nothing, but do you think I should take a, um . . .”
I can’t make eye contact. “Test. For, um. That.”
The word pregnancy lodges in my throat; I’m unable to say it.
His expression softens, lips twitching at the corners like he’s trying not to smile. Or panic. Honestly, it could go either way. “That sounds like a good idea, if you’re late,” he says slowly. “Do you already have one?”
“Oh! Yes, yes I do.” I wave a hand in the direction of the hallway, like it’s no big deal. Like I didn’t already use one and toss it haphazardly into the guest bathroom wastebasket like the rookie I am.
Maverick’s eyebrows lift. “Smart.”
He is so supportive!
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, pushing to my feet, heart thumping like a jackhammer. “I’ll just, you know. Go take it.” I pause, looking down at him. “Wanna come with? For moral support?”
His mouth twitches again, totally amused. “You want me to watch you pee?”
“Never mind,” I mutter, fleeing toward the bathroom, stomach flipping. “Forget I said anything!”
I am so embarrassed. But he’s already up and off the couch and following behind me to his bathroom.
I hold up a box. “Only if you’re prepared to witness something deeply undignified.”
He smirks. “Annabelle, I think we’re past that.”
I groan, but he follows me in, leaning against the doorjamb like this is some romantic team-building exercise instead of a potential life-change-involving pee.
“Okay.” I gesture awkwardly to the toilet. “So . . . I guess I just . . . go?”
He grins. “You want me to turn around?”
“No, you can . . . I mean, whatever.”
Jesus, what was I thinking when I blurted out the I invite for him to participate?
I hike down my leggings, sit, and try to pee as discreetly as possible—which is freaking impossible. Peeing quietly is a myth. Every drip feels like it echoes off the tile like a trumpet blast.
He pretends to study the ceiling, hands tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants. “This is surprisingly not the most awkward thing we’ve done.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Maverick laughs in reply, deep and amused, like I’ve said something funny when I was being totally serious.
I cap the stick, wrap it in toilet paper, and set it on the counter, not worried in the least because I already know what the outcome is going to be.
Negative. Like the last one.
It’s fine. This is just confirmation. Insurance. Visual peace of mind.
Still . . .
I find myself glancing sideways at Maverick, who’s still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up, looking maddeningly relaxed for someone potentially about to be thrust into surprise fatherhood. Even though I know he’s not.
“What?” I ask, because his eyes haven’t left me and he’s making me nervous.
He shrugs, lips twitching like he knows something I don’t. “You’re cute when you’re pretending not to care.”
“I’m not pretending,” I lie. “Stop staring at me.”
He laughs. I huff, turn to wash my hands. Because now we’re in the waiting portion of this regularly scheduled panic program, and I need to occupy my body before my brain starts sprinting laps around the possibilities.
“It’s going to be negative,” I say aloud, mostly for myself. “I just wanted to be sure.”
“I know.”
I side-eye him. “How can you be certain?”
Maverick shifts his weight against the doorframe, gaze steady. “Because I found the first test.”
I do my best not to grin. Busted!
I knew he knew!
Still, he has the decency to look a little sheepish. “In the guest bathroom trash. Under like . . . one crumpled tissue. You’re not exactly covert, Annabelle.”
The towel dangles from my fingertips. “You’ve known this whole time, and you didn’t mention it?”
He nods once, trying hard not to laugh.
“You dick!” I scoff. “You let me take another one?” My voice climbs half an octave as I feign indignancy. “You watched me pee on another stick like we were discovering this together for the first time?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I was being supportive. You seemed worried.”
“I was worried,” I admit, shoulders sagging, heat rising in my cheeks. “But not just about the test.”
His teasing expression fades. “Then what?”
I swallow hard, clutching the towel to my chest like a shield. “I felt bad for not telling you sooner. For hiding it. Even though it was just one test, I kept it from you, and that made me feel gross.”
“Hey.” Maverick steps closer, brushing a knuckle down my arm. “You don’t have to feel bad. It’s your body. You get to process things however you need to process them.”
“But we’re in this weird limbo where the world thinks we’re married, and we’re sleeping together, and we’re—whatever we are—and I just . . .” I struggle to find the words. “I didn’t want you to find out from the trash can that I’d thought maybe I was pregnant.”
His lips twitch again. “To be fair, the trash can told me very politely.”
I whack him lightly in the stomach with the hand towel. “This is not a joke.”
“I know, I know.” He snags one end of the towel and holds it hostage, pulling me forward to kiss me on the forehead.
We stand in silence, side by side in the bathroom, until my eyes drift toward the counter—where the second test is still sitting. Wrapped in toilet paper, poorly disguised.
I exhale. “Should we check it?”
Maverick nods. “If you want to.”
I shake my head and take a slow step forward. My hand hovers for a second before I peel back the tissue, expecting to see that single line.
I blink.
Then blink again.
Because there are not one but two very dark, very obvious blue lines staring back at me.
“Oh,” I whisper.
Behind me, Maverick tries to look over my shoulder. “What?”
I lift the stick higher without turning around. “Um. There are . . . two.”
He moves closer, squinting. “Two?”
“Lines,” I croak.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
We just stare at it, like the extra blue line is about to stand up and explain itself.
“Well,” he finally says, voice weirdly calm. “That’s not negative.”