“And if he doesn’t?”
The words hit like a fist.
“He will,” I whisper.
“Okay.” Jasper doesn’t push. “I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t move.”
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
He hangs up.
I lie there. Staring at the ceiling. Counting the seconds until someone shows up and makes me pretend I’m okay.
Because I’m not okay.
I’m forty-eight hours into a two-week nightmare.
And I have no idea how I’m going to survive the rest.
44
Mary
“Absolutely not.” Jasper stands in my bedroom doorway, hands on his hips, looking at me like I’m a particularly disappointing art installation.
“You need to get out of this bed,” he says.
“I’m fine here.”
“You’re marinating in sadness and his pillow. That’s not fine. That’s a cry for help wrapped in Egyptian cotton.”
I clutch said pillow tighter. “I’m grieving.”
“You’re spiraling.” He walks over, yanks the curtains open. Sunlight floods in. I hiss like a vampire. “And you smell like despair and morning sickness. When did you last shower?”
“Yesterday.”
“Try again.”
“The day before yesterday.”
“Mary Cathrine Sullivan.” He uses my full name. Never good. “Get your ass in the shower. We’re going outside.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. You will. I’ll pick your outfit. Something that doesn’t scream ‘my boyfriend left me and I’m dying inside.’” He opens my closet, starts rifling through. “Although, to be fair, that’s most of your wardrobe these days.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I mutter.
Jasper turns, one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”
“He’s… I don’t know what he is.”
“He’s the father of your baby. He’s the man you’re in love with. He’s the reason you haven’t eaten solid food in two days.” Jasper pulls out a soft gray dress. “He’s your person. Even if you’re too stubborn to use labels.”
My throat tightens. “What if he doesn’t come back?”
“Then we’ll deal with it. Together. But right now, he’s alive, and you’re alive, and this baby needs you to stop living like a gothicheroine waiting to die of consumption.” He tosses the dress at me. “Shower. Now. I’ll make you toast.”
