Now, in the bathroom of our own comfortable but small apartment, Becca’s voice is strangely raspy. “None of the above.”
“Uh oh. Is it aPractical Magicnight?” I joke. “Do you need a margarita?”
“Um…definitely not.”
“Hope Floats? Oh god, did someone die?”
“That’s not it, Nico.”
The flat tone when she says my name is familiar, but not one I hear often from her. It’s not just angry or worried orunamused. It’s that thing where she’s all of those combined, and also on the verge of falling off a cliff.
When I push back the curtain, Becca is sitting on the toilet lid, already in her after-work outfit: a tee-shirt and cut-off sweats. Her eyes are downcast.
I open my mouth to suggest a deeper cut likeThe Thing Called Love. But then I see her face. I know when to shut my mouth.
She clutches something in her hands.
At first, I think she’s cut herself accidentally. She holds her hands so tightly, as if she’s trying to stem a bleed. But then I realize what she’s holding.
“Bec…is that what I think it is?”
Six
Becca
Nico stands on the rug, dripping from the shower, steam forming a halo around his whole body. That body. My life raft. Chest and arms carved from years of hard work—fixing cars, baling hay, working construction. Legs that can run like hell when necessary, though it’s been a while since we had to outrun Chief Pitts, busting up one of our keg parties in the woods. Still, I bet he could run uphill like he was raised by the fucking catamounts. Nico is still the wild, sweet boy I fell in love with, only now with responsibilities.
Let’s see if he’s ready for this one.
Nico tugs the towel off the rack and slowly wraps it around his hips.
I take in the tanned, muscular calves, the delicious, vee-shaped valley below his navel, with soft black hairs peeking out above the towel.
He studies me with his deep brown eyes. His forehead grooves in worry. He looks from me to the thing in my hands and asks if this is what he thinks it is.
The two pink lines are so pink, he has to see what I’m seeing. Hell, someone standing down the street would have no problem seeing what this is.
“Nico?”
My lips are trembling so hard I can’t get the rest of the words out.
I don’t have to. He knows.
Now that the realization has settled on his face, I need to know how he feels. I need to know exactly how a pregnancy will affect the start of our marriage. I need to know if he’s upset or sad or frustrated or, worst of all, if he wants out of this. It’s unthinkable, but I have to prepare myself. I could be doing this on my own.
A memory flashes in the back of my mind. Of my parents warning me, “If that boy gets you pregnant, don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
But then another memory surfaces. Darren Davis snapped Quincy’s bra strap in sixth grade. Then Nico shoved Darren into a locker. Not hard. Just enough to rattle him. I had stood there with my mouth agape. Darren and his friends frequently mocked Nico after they noticed he wore clothes that had once belonged to Darren, thanks to the thriving thrift economy in Songbird Ridge. People getting each other’s secondhand wares was never anything surprising, but Darren and his friends were, how shall I say this, total pricks.
“Oh my god. Are you pregnant?” Nico asks, gripping the doorframe like the railing of a tossing ship.
“Yes,” I reply hoarsely, searching his eyes for something. Waiting for the shock to wear off into something else.
“I thought…” Nico drops to his knees in front of me, eyes flicking between me and the thing in my hands.
“We were careful? Yes. Yes, as long as I’m taking the pill. But I’ve been forgetting here and there.”
He nods. “How many times?”
