Jesus. Who even am I?
I give my head a little shake, like that’ll rattle the sex thoughts loose. Not helping, especially with Gordo yowling like he’s auditioning forLes Mis.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, dragging myself upright. My legs wobble, useless. “You win, furry dictator.”
Gordo leaps off the bed and circles my ankles, nearly taking me out. My legs are not ready for acrobatics.
I shuffle toward the kitchen, every step another throbbing reminder of just how many times he— God, I lost count after the second orgasm. Everything after that is a blur of heat and gasping and him saying things that made my face burn and my pussy clench at the same time.
And then the spiral takes a nosedive into panic.
Because it hits me: I don’t have my pills. Not here. They’re back in my crappy little apartment, probably buried under an unpaid bill and an empty wine bottle. My stomach drops hard enough to make me grab the counter for balance.
Brilliant, Mary. Absolutely brilliant.
I picture the pharmacy across town, its flickering neon OPEN 24 HOURS sign. The one I used to sneak into for emergency Plan Bs when Evan “forgot.”
But I can’t just stroll out of here, can I?
No, I cannot. Anton literally warned me not to go wandering off without telling him.
My stomach twists. I should text him.
Just to… I don’t know. Let him know I’m alive? That I— What? Need to buy pregnancy pills like some panicked college freshman? Oh yeah, that’ll go over well.
Gordo yowls at my ankles, nearly tripping me again. “I’m working on it, dammit,” I mutter, pawing through cabinets until I find a can of tuna. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”
I crack the can and dump it into a bowl. Gordo dives in like he hasn’t eaten since the Bush administration, tail flicking in my face as if to say,“Finally, servant.”
“Right. Don’t mind me, I’ll just limp around here with post-coital whiplash while you inhale like a frat boy at a wing special.”
I set the can opener down and catch sight of my bag shoved half under the chair where I dropped it yesterday. My pulse jumps.
Phone.
I crouch down, tug it free, and pull out the phone buried inside. My fingers hover over the screen.
Come on, Mary. This isn’t the time to be a coward.
Do I actually text him? What would I even say?“Morning, thanks for the orgasms, quick question: do you want a kid right now?”
I stare at the blank message box, frozen.
The phone buzzes in my hand.
I nearly fling it across the room. The sound rattles straight through my ribs.
Jasper. Fuck. It’s Jasper.
One text in all caps:
BUTTERCUP. DISASTER. FACETIME NOW, OR I SWEAR I’LL HIJACK A PRIVATE JET.
I groan, thumb hovering. My whole body aches, I’m half terrified I’m pregnant, and now my best friend is mid–Greek tragedy, blowing up my phone.
Before I can think, the screen lights up again. Incoming FaceTime call.
I hesitate. Jasper’s face fills the screen—sunglasses indoors, silk robe, chaos behind him. His mouth is already moving, shouting:
