I know my ex-wife, and she isn’t one to panic quickly. Sure, she might have a few nervous tics that compel her to organize every cupboard and drawer, but those are also the times she thinks, plans, and prepares.
So, given the look that just passed over her face, paired with the fact that she hasn’t answered my texts or calls, I know something is wrong. And let’s not forget she still looks guilty as she detaches herself from Michael’s arms.
Michael’s eyes widen in surprise as he takes me in. And just when Nisha’s mouth opens, probably to explain, her cat appears out of nowhere with something in his mouth.
Over the past few weeks, the weird little fucker has grown on me. And not only because he’s always bringing me shit, like he’s trying to court me with gifts, but because he’s . . . kind of cute in his own big-eyed, hairless alien sort of way.
A couple of weeks ago, he brought me Johnny Depp’s wallet. Thankfully, Johnny and I know each other, and he took the whole thing lightly, so it wasn’t too awkward, but yeah, it could have been worse.
With his tail standing straight up in the air like an antenna, Beaver’s eyes stay on me as he prowls forward. Coming to a stop, he drops the item at my feet and sits back on his hind legs like he’s waiting for applause.
A gasp leaves Nisha’s lips as my eyes take in the item, narrowing when my brain registers what it is.
A . . . pregnancy test.
Mixed with the sound of blood rushing through my ears, I hear Michael mumble a “Holy shit,” as I bend down to retrieve the stick.
“Patton.” Nisha’s voice sounds far away as my brain tries to come to terms with what I’m looking at.
Two pink lines stare back at me, clear as the early September afternoon outside. For a moment, my lungs can’t remember how to operate.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think . . .
Is this . . .? Is this for real?
The emotion that slams into me is so intense, so substantial, that it physically moves me. I take a step back, my other hand running through my hair. Pure joy and elation, mixed with a hint of terror and shock, makes my legs feel weak, like I’m standing on stilts.
She’s pregnant.
She’s fucking pregnant with my baby.
Again.
I look up, having momentarily forgotten that I’m still standing in front of them, to find both Nisha and the asshole next to her staring at me with varying degrees of bewilderment.
Michael’s eyes flit from the pregnancy test in my hand to Nisha’s face, some unspoken exchange passing between them, raising my hackles.
Wait . . . why did he give her that look?
Is . . .oh, God.
Is the baby not mine?
We haven’t really talked about exclusivity, but I didn’t think we needed to. She’s the only woman I’ve been with in years, but maybe that’s not the case for her?
With the test still clutched in my hand and my eyes locked on my ex-wife, I speak with deadly calm despite the thunderous way my heart is hammering and the million directions my thoughts are spinning. “Is it mine?”
Something like hurt flits across Nisha’s face before it hardens and a dangerous glint flashes in her eyes. It’s the same one thatgenerally precedes a roundhouse-kick to the head when she’s on the mat.
She takes a step forward, her mouth opening to respond when Michael speaks.
“Blimey, are you . . . are youPatton Pierce?” His head swivels between me to Nisha and then back again like it’s trying to unscrew itself. “Nisha, is he Patton Pierce?”
Neither of us answers, locked in an eye-war.
Michael uses the time to continue being a motormouth. “Wow. I honestly can’t believe it. I’m Micah, by the way. And, clearly, there’s a lot to unpack here”—his eyes dart between the test in my hand to both Nisha’s and my face—“but I’m a huge fan. You’re actually shorter than I expected . . . not that you’re short! Just, you look seven-foot-tall in your movies. And your work onPilots of the Pacificwas?—”
“Answer the question, Nisha,” I say, ignoring the idiot. My jaw is granite as I look down at my ex-wife.“Is. It. Mine?”
