He leans in slightly, just close enough that his breath warms my cheek. “And yet you agreed to dinner.” My pulse does that stupid little hop it’s been doing since I peed on the test. I swallow and force brightness into my voice. “Because I like free food.” Anthony huffs like he’s amused, then guides me inside. The doorman greets him by name; like he’s a regular here. It shouldn’t grate on me, but it does.
We’re escorted past a sea of low-lit tables, past people who are too polished to look real. We walk to a corner booth with enough privacy to make my skin prickle. Anthony pulls my chair out, waits for me to sit, then sits across from me like the world hasn’t been quietly rearranging itself inside my body all day.
My hands shake when I pick up the menu. The paper is thick and expensive. The font is delicate. The prices are nonexistent. I stare at it like I’ve never seen food before. My stomach is unpredictable. It’s either rolling with nausea or hollow with hunger so sharp it feels like a threat. I don’t know which version of it I am getting right now. I don’t know if I’m going to devour everything in sight or gag at the smell of butter. I spent three hours this morning on my bathroom floor expelling my guts and lying about being on an errand.
Anthony watches me in silence for a moment. “You look like you’re about to negotiate with it.”
“I don’t know what any of these words mean,” I say, scanning a description that sounds like someone wrote it while smelling their own importance. “Is this fish? Or is it a metaphor?”
“It’s fish,” he says dryly. “Everything here is fish or beef, just dressed up to feel superior. Your entire job is the English language, April.”
I glance up, startled by the fact that he’s joking, or at least trying to. A laugh almost slips out of me, but it catches. I force it down and replace it with a smile that feels too practiced. “Lookat you,” I say, leaning into the banter like it’s a life raft. “Making jokes again. Are you feeling okay? Should I call a doctor?”
His eyes narrow, amused. “You have one line, and you keep recycling it.”
“It’s a good line.”
“It’s mediocre.”
I gasp, feigning offense. “Excuse you?”
He studies me with that measuring gaze that makes me feel like he can see through my deflections. “You’re trying too hard.”
My smile stiffens. “Am I?”
“Yes.” He reaches for his water, expression calm, voice too even. “You’ve been off all day.”
The restaurant suddenly feels too warm and bright. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced.
The waiter appears, quick and silent, asking about drinks. Before Anthony can rattle off more than his own order for wine, before he can decide for me like he’s done every other time we’ve eaten together, I hear myself say, “Just water for me, please.” The words land like a dropped bomb. Anthony slowly turns his head, settling his eyes on me.
The waiter nods, glides away, and the moment the space between us is private again, Anthony purses his lips. “Why?”
I shrug too casually. “I don’t want wine.”
“You always want wine.”
“Not tonight.”
His gaze dips to my mouth, then back up. “Are you pregnant?”
My throat closes. Of course he goes directly there, to that question. He asks it like he’s ripping off a bandage. He is a man who thrives on directness and treats discomfort like an inconvenience he can bulldoze through.
I try to force a laugh. “No.”
Anthony is as still as stone. He doesn’t blink or move, just watches me.
“No,” I repeat, firmer this time, like I’m repeating it will somehow make it true.
His jaw tightens. “April.” The way he says my name is different; he’s not teasing me anymore, he’s demanding an answer. “I’m not,” I insist, staring down at the menu so I don’t have to look at him. “It’s probably stress or something…my stomach’s weird. You know.”
“You were meant to start your period a week and a half ago,” he says, voice low and controlled. “And you haven’t.”
My fingers clamp around the menu hard enough to crease it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” His tone sharpens, just slightly. “We’ve been tracking your ovulation. We’ve had sex three times this week. I know your cycle, April.”
