Or is this me being naive?
Being a resort town, we’ve had our fair share of sightings of famous people over the years, because they come to Star Lake to escape. Like the time Denzel Washington rented a cottage and was spotted in Loon Landing Café grabbing a latte with his wife. Or the time that one country singer, whose name I can’t remember, made a pit stop for a night on his way to Portland.
No one bothered them.
My point is, Star Lake is a town where no one bothers anyone and residents don’t lock their car doors and we sleep with our windows open in the summer.
So no one will care.
I do my best to convince myself of this as I plop down next to him, the weight of the world suddenly on my shoulders. We stare at the TV, neither of us actually watching it, before I blurt out, “I didn’t get my period.”
Maverick turns his head so fast I’m genuinely concerned his spine just filed a complaint. “What?”
I clear my throat, gaze fixed straight ahead. “I—I was late. Like, really late. And I freaked out and went to the pharmacy—”
“Okay.” His voice is gentle, his expression unreadable. “Keep going.”
“Anyway. It’s probably nothing, but do you think I should take a, um ...”
I can’t make eye contact. “Test. For, um. That.”
The wordpregnancylodges in my throat; I’m unable to say it.
His expression softens, lips twitching at the corners like he’s trying not to smile. Or panic. Honestly, it could go either way. “That sounds like a good idea, if you’re late,” he says slowly. “Do you already have one?”
“Oh! Yes, yes I do.” I wave a hand in the direction of the hallway, like it’s no big deal. Like I didn’t already use one and toss it haphazardly into the guest bathroom wastebasket like the rookie I am.
Maverick’s eyebrows lift. “Smart.”
He is so supportive!
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, pushing to my feet, heart thumping like a jackhammer. “I’ll just, you know. Go take it.” I pause, looking down at him. “Wanna come with? For moral support?”
His mouth twitches again, totally amused. “You want me to watch you pee?”
“Never mind,” I mutter, fleeing toward the bathroom, stomach flipping. “Forget I said anything!”
I am so embarrassed. But he’s already up and off the couch and following behind me to his bathroom.
I hold up a box. “Only if you’re prepared to witness something deeply undignified.”
He smirks. “Annabelle, I think we’re past that.”
I groan, but he follows me in, leaning against the doorjamb like this is some romantic team-building exercise instead of a potential life-change-involving pee.
“Okay.” I gesture awkwardly to the toilet. “So ... I guess I just ... go?”
He grins. “You want me to turn around?”
“No, you can ... I mean, whatever.”
Jesus, what was I thinking when I blurted out the I invite for him to participate?
I hike down my leggings, sit, and try to pee as discreetly as possible—which is freaking impossible. Peeing quietly is a myth. Every drip feels like it echoes off the tile like a trumpet blast.
He pretends to study the ceiling, hands tucked in the pockets of his sweatpants. “This is surprisingly not the most awkward thing we’ve done.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
