CHAPTER EIGHT
Leanne
Iroll over in bed with a groan, pulling my pillow tight against my front. Very little has changed in the past twenty-four hours.
I’m still pregnant, which means I’m elated… and terrified… and so fucking sick I can barely see straight. And I still haven’t attempted to contact Bryce—though I did track down his number on one of the contracts from the wedding. Somehow, sending an email, given our history, didn’t feel right.
I’ve barely gotten out of bed except to take a shower—the one thing that makes me feel almost human, at least until my stomach rolls and I’m sent running for the toilet. I’m subsisting on water and a prayer at this juncture.
It’s not exactly the beautiful, glowing pregnancy experience I always envisioned.
Of course, I never envisioned I’d be doing it alone.
I thought I’d have a partner. Someone to hold my hair and go to the store for supplies.
I imagined my family rallied around me, the support of the people I love getting me through the worst parts.
Instead, my hair is greasy, and my boss Vivian is completely beside herself with worry that I must be dying because I’ve never called out of work for an entire week.
The family group chat is blowing up my phone with its usual chatter, but I haven’t bothered to respond, too tired to pretend I’m not hugging my toilet most of the day.
Also, whoever called this shit “morning sickness” can go straight to hell. It may get a little better in the afternoons and evenings, but I’m still essentially non-functioning at those times too.
My phone vibrates on the pillow beside my head, and I move nothing but my hand to swipe it open.
Jenna
Leanne, are you alive?
The last message I sent was on Monday asking if anyone else had gotten sick after family dinner Sunday night—no one had. Joke’s on me, it wasn’t food poisoning at all. It’s now Saturday, and I’m surprised they’re only now realizing I’ve gone dark.
Mom
Are you still sick?
With Mom chiming in, I’m going to have to reply.
Otherwise, her worry will take over and she’ll appear at my door, prepared to clean my house from top to bottom and fill my fridge with chicken noodle soup.
Part of me wants that to happen, but I’m not ready to face my family yet.
I’m not ready to open the can of worms my pregnancy is sure to bring.
For one, they have no idea Bryce and I slept together the night of the rehearsal dinner.
For another, they don’t know I’d been trying to get pregnant and subsequently believed I couldn’t—Craig and I never shared that part of our relationship with them, which only made it easier to lie about why we ended things.
Mom
Leanne, if we don’t hear from you by lunchtime, I’m coming over.
Called it. I roll onto my back, lifting my phone above me to type.
Me
I’m alive. I’ve got the stomach flu though so don’t come over here. I don’t want anyone else to get it.
Mom
Oh no. Do you need anything?
Me
No, I’m okay.
Mom
Are you sure? I hate the idea of you home sick all by yourself.
Mom has never handled any of us getting sick well after everything we went through with Jenna.
Me
Really, I’ll be fine. I even called a doctor yesterday and they said it should get better soon.
It’s not a lie, I did call a doctor—an OBGYN, to be exact—who told me the morning sickness would likely subside, and that it’s usually worst in the first few weeks. It’s whether I’ll survive weeks of this that’s most concerning.
Mom
Alright. Call if you need anything.
I react with a thumbs-up and drop the phone back onto my pillow.
I can picture Mom’s concerned face: brow furrowed and lips pursed as she relays the messages to my dad, since he refuses to be part of the group chat. He hates texting, always insisting on a phone call if he wants to talk.
I reluctantly swing my legs out of bed and take my time standing, knowing if I get up too fast, I’ll get dizzy, which will only lead to a one-way ticket to heaving my guts up.
Grabbing my phone off the pillow, I head for the kitchen. Maybe a cup of tea will help? I haven’t tried that yet.
I move on autopilot while my brain goes back to the day of the wedding—waking up with the early light of dawn, sprawled across Bryce’s chest, and panicking.
I left him there alone in that damned tent and scampered back to my room, praying no one would see my walk of shame.
I spent the rest of the day pretending I hadn’t seen him naked, hadn’t felt his body moving with mine, hadn’t experienced a physical connection unlike any before.
I treated him with the same level of indifferent agitation I had prior to climbing him like a tree.
I could sense his confusion, feel his eyes on me throughout the day, but by the time the wedding festivities drew to a close, I didn’t seek him out—though my body wanted to.
Instead, I slipped away to my room, packed my bags, and went to bed. Alone.
As soon as the sun was high enough for me to see where I was going, I loaded my things into Jenna’s car—she and Eric having escaped the night before in a limo bound for the airport and their honeymoon—and left before anyone else was awake.
I’d done my part. I’d taken point on planning their wedding.
I’d ensured everything went off without a hitch.
I didn’t have to stay for clean-up; the rest of the family could do that.
I needed to get out.
Being surrounded by all that love and joy and excitement… Everything felt too raw. And no matter how much I tried to ignore him, it was like Bryce could see right through me. Like he could see all of me.
I think he did… in the tent. I haven’t felt that seen in a long time. And it scared the fuck out of me.
I couldn’t stand the thought of facing him in the light of another day. I didn’t think I’d be able to keep it together if I did. So, I left, and only in the rearview did I find him, sitting on the wraparound porch of his house, watching me drive away.
But now… What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Do I call him? Will he even want to talk to me? Do I have a choice?
I inhale through my nose, willing the tightening sensation in my gut to release. I cannot believe this is happening.
Leaving my tea to steep, I stride to the counter and grab my phone.
On impulse, I swipe it open—drawn to the contact I’ve been staring at off and on since I added it last night.
But this time my finger slips across the middle of the screen, pressing his number in the process.
My stomach plummets as his name appears, and I repeatedly hit the red button until the call ends.
It didn’t even get a chance to ring, so maybe it didn’t go through? I release a breath and assure myself that even if it did, he has no way of knowing it was me. Some unknown number, he’ll probably assume it was spam.
The phone vibrates against my palm, and my heart stops. Bryce Butler flashes on the screen.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I glance around as if something in my living room will give me an excuse to ignore this call, but there’s no going back now. My heart races and a wave of heat, followed by cold dread, ripples through my body.
I swipe my finger across the screen and swallow.
“Hello?” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Leanne?”
That voice. I go weak in the knees—out of trepidation and uncertainty, or something else, I don’t know—and lean against my kitchen island.
“Bryce?” I ask, pretending I didn’t just call him and hang up.
“Yeah, hi,” he says with just as much uncertainty as I’m feeling. “I… Did I miss a call from you just now?”
“Yeah, I…” I narrow my eyes even though he can’t see me. “Wait, how’d you know it was me?”
“I have your number. It was in one of our emails,” he explains.
“Missed me so much you’ve been rereading our emails, huh?” Oh for the love, Leanne. Is it possible for me not to sass this man? But it also feels good, normal almost. And I crave that sense of normalcy, if only for a moment.
He chuckles and the sound loosens something in me. “I guess so. I’ve actually thought about calling you more times than I can count… Might’ve even drafted a couple of emails.” His tone is light, easy, like now that we’re talking, he’s glad for it.
My heart stutters. Has he really been thinking about me?
Lord knows I’ve thought about him. About that night. Usually in the dark of my bedroom when the loneliness sets in, but by the time morning rolls around, I tell myself there’s no point wondering. It was one night. I don’t even like him, or I didn’t… I don’t think.
Nope. I shake my head. I can’t let his hint of interest muddle things. Not now. This is a big enough mess as it is. “Bryce, I—”
“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he says over me.
“When I saw your name, I thought maybe…” He stops himself and I hold my breath, waiting for what he’ll say next.
There’s nothing but sincerity in his voice when he continues.
“Listen, even if you still don’t like me, I want you to know that I do… like you.”
His earnestness wraps me in a warm cocoon like a comforting embrace, and it decimates what’s left of my careful composure. Before I can think better of it, I blurt out the truth.
“I’m pregnant.” I slap a hand over my mouth. The line goes silent and I wonder if he hung up… or maybe passed out. I kind of feel like I might. “Bryce?” My voice shoots up an octave—another telltale sign that I am not okay and don’t have it all together like I want to.
“Yeah, I’m here.” His voice is steady but rough, and I can’t place the tone beneath it. “Did you… Did you just say you’re pregnant?”
He’s not yelling, so that’s a good sign.
My stomach tightens at the prospect of continuing this conversation, plus I’m definitely due to throw up again. “Yes,” I say, and clamp my mouth shut against a gag. I should’ve waited to even consider calling him until I was past the worst of the day’s sickness.
His gravelly voice says something, but I can’t make it out. My hearing has gone fuzzy around the edges and my stomach gives another lurch.
I run for the bathroom and barely make it.
I distantly register faint yelling as I pull back from the toilet and wipe my face with the back of my hand.
I pick up the phone from where I dropped it on the tile and set it on the counter while I wash my hands and rinse out my mouth.
He can wait another minute—though I think he’d disagree, considering the yelling is only getting louder.
“Stop yelling, I’m right here,” I mutter once I have the phone cradled against my ear.
“Jesus, blondie,” he growls, using the nickname I told myself I hated but have somehow missed these last six weeks. I can picture him running one of his big hands through his hair and pretend I don’t remember exactly how it felt between my own fingers.
“Why are you upset?” I bristle. “I’m the one who—”
“Got sick,” he cuts me off. “Yeah, I heard.”
I should be used to his cutting brusqueness at this point, but I can’t tell now if it’s just because he’s talking to me or because of what I told him…
Considering his tone when he said he likes me was much gentler, I’m going to go with the second option. He’s pissed.
“Leanne?” he asks, voice moderately calmer.
“Yeah?” I respond, exhaustion stripping back the snark.
His exhale is shaky, and I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid of what he’ll say next.
“Where are you right now?”
I open then close my mouth. That’s not what I was expecting. “What?”
“Where. Are. You?” he asks again, emphasizing each word in a way that instantly puts me on alert.
“Home,” I say, the word wrapped in tension… anticipation.
“Good, I’m coming to see you. We need to talk. Text me the address.”
And before I can more than splutter an attempt at protest, the line goes dead.
Fuck.