As reluctant as I was to sleep with him after the night of Sarina’s bachelorette party, the man, with his lethal charm and persistence, wore me down.
He showed up at my door with breakfast every morning for a week. And not just any breakfast, but my kryptonite—French toast. I have no idea if he made food runs himself or sent an assistant, but each meal was from a different restaurant. Each better than the last. Each a love letter sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon.
So, after another week of fighting it, I found myself inviting him in and letting him do all the filthy things I’d pretended for seven years that I didn’t still dream about.
Between his film schedule and PR events and my hours at the salon anddojang, we’ve both been busy. There have been days we’ve only had a handful of minutes together, but we’ve made them count.
An hour curled up on his couch, talking and staring into each other’s eyes, while Bob slept at our feet, Darth Vader providing the background noise in our conversation. A quick dinner he’d picked up on his way back home. Or a kiss that lingered until we were both breathless and ready to rip each other’s clothes off when he visited me at the salon.
And there have been other days—lazy Sundays and late August nights—where whispered pillow talk and ravenous lovemaking made me feel like we spoke a language we created ourselves. One no one else could understand.
So, yeah, I haven’t labeled it, but I can’t deny it’ssomething. And that terrifies me more than I can put into words.
Piper’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’d been moving the same piece ofsamosaaround in the chutney with my fork. “It’s what we’ve been saying in our group chat. We’re not encouraging you to dive back into the deep end, but maybe just stop worrying that you’re going to drown if you get close.”
I’m just thinking about their words when Dad asks, “Why haven’t you eaten anything? It’s been twenty minutes, and you’ve been rolling the same bite around your plate.”
My stomach does that turning thing it’s been doing lately. “I don’t think I’m very hungry. Sorry, Dad. I’m sure it’s delicious, but?—”
The back of Dad’s fingers brushing my forehead cuts off the rest of my words. His bangles jingle as he moves the backs of his fingers to my neck. “Sweetie, are you sick?”
I shake my head. “No, just haven’t felt like eating deep-fried food lately?—”
A gasp across the table has me looking at my sister, her saucer eyes taking me in as if they’re seeing me after years.
I look from her to Piper and then Dad. Even Emanuel seems to be clued in on something I’m not. “What?”
Sarina’s mouth opens and closes, her eyes flicking between my plate to my face. “Neesh, when was your last period?”
The question makes my heart thud against my chest. “What? No . . . it’s not what you think?—”
“Babe.” Piper leans over the table like she’s about to whisper a national secret. “Are you sure? Remember how you hated kiwis the last?—”
I shake my head assertively as a pang hits me square between the ribs. “No, it’s not that. It’s not even possible. I’ve always had irregular periods with my polycystic ovaries.”
“Still, sweetie.” Dad squeezes my hand again. “Itcouldbe. The doctor didn’t say never; she just said the chances were naturally low.”
“This will be a day long remembered. Hhhhooo. Haaahhhaaa.”
Fucking Vader and his impeccable timing.
I shoot up from my chair, the scrape of wood on wood making both Bob and Sapphire jump. Even Ariana pauses, mid-eating, and Rome finally looks up from his book, their eyes wide in question, wondering what the hell got into their aunt.
No. This can’t be.
It simply can’t.
Yes, the doctor said the chances were naturally low, extremely low. Which is why Patton and I had gone throughseveral rounds of in vitro fertilization to get pregnant all those years ago when treatments to induce regular ovulation didn’t work for me. So, how could it be possible now? We’ve been so careful, having used protection every time after that first time . . .
But we didn’t use it that very first time . . .
God. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
“I’m . . . I need to—” I mumble what I think is a sentence but couldn’t repeat it if I tried.
“Call it a coincidence or intuition,” Piper says, reaching into her cavernous Hermes purse, “but I have two pregnancy tests in here.”
“What?” The question is echoed by multiple people around the table, including me.
