If we’re pointing fingers about who did what then I should be the one to blame. It wasmyspur of the moment plan. I wanted to move on so badly that I misled him. So if we’re blaming someone, it should be me.
But we’re not.
Because he’s right.
It doesn’t matter how she came into existence and it doesn’t matter that this is going to be so difficult. Because she’s not a mistake, and I’m not going to blame or point fingers when I have her to think about now.
Whenwehave her.
He says gruffly, “Fine.”
With that, he goes to the closed toilet seat and sits down on it and my breaths scatter for a second. I know why he did that. I know why he took a seat.
Because of the stark differences in our heights.
Because last time when I did this I had to get up on a stepstool to tend to his wounds.
So he’s made it easier for me without me having to tell him first. He’s even got his hands resting on his thighs, his veins all taut and thick under his moon-kissed skin. Like he’s ready now and he won’t stop me if I want to clean his cuts and scrapes.
And so I go to do that.
I walk up to him as he sits there like a king.
No, like a criminal. A thug. A villain.
All bruised up and battered and I’m the girl he’s chosen to tend to him tonight. The girl who’ll take care of him.
I clean them up as I try to control my breathing, my heartbeats. As I try to control this rush, this warmth in my chest at the onslaught of memories and the fact that he’s being so… good.
So docile.
For me.
But his eyes tell another story. His eyes are thrumming with currents, with pulses that makes me think of our one night together.
Don’t, Callie. Please.
When I’m done and I go to put everything back into the cabinet, I notice something.
Something I hadn’t before: colorful little boxes stacked on the top shelf.
With trembling hands, I take one out — a hot pink one — and face him. “Why do you have these?”
He’s standing now, his face still battered but at least he’s got bandages and his cuts are clean. He looks at what I have in my hand and replies, swallowing, “Because you probably didn’t have a chance to get these. Not in the dorms. Not yet.”
He’s right.
I haven’t had a chance. “I was going to go get one this weekend while I was home. But you…” I glance back at the cabinet. “You bought like a ton.”
Just like when we were talking about the book, his cheekbones sport a slight flush. “I didn’t know which one would be best.”
I know what he means. Because there are so many. I Googled them at school.
Rapid detection. First response. Early detection. Digital countdown, whatever that means. And I was so dreading it.
I was so dreading going to the pharmacy all alone and getting myself a pregnancy test. I was dreading walking down the aisle, standing there and picking out the best one among hundreds.
And then I was dreading taking the test. All alone.
