Prologue
December
Arthur Peterson stood patiently inthe hallway, waiting to find out if his life was about to change.
Positioned just outside the bathroom door, he could hear everything. The cheap, builder-grade material had a way of not only not dampening sounds but somehow amplifying them. On quiet nights, when the upstairs neighbors weren’t stomping around and violently dragging heavy chains across the floor or whatever it was they did up there, Arthur and Wren could hear each other wipe. Wipe! Safe to say there were no secrets in this household.
The amphitheater-like properties of the apartment’s layout were working overtime tonight. Arthur could hear every rip of the box coming from inside the bathroom, every peel of the wrapper, and soon, every single drip-drop that would determine the next eighteen-plus years of his life.
He waited, leaning against the wall, but not too hard lest the plasterboard give way. (Arthur knew almost nothing about construction, home repair, or general handiness, but he knew deep in his soul that the drywall in their apartment had to be thinner than the standard. Glorified papier-mâché.)
He waited still and heard nothing.
“Babe? Did you fall in?”
“Yes,” Wren called through the door. “I’ve fallen in and am now making my way through the Baltimore City sewage system.”
“Oh, that’s not good,” he said flatly. Wren wasn’t a strong swimmer, he knew that much.
“I did briefly drop the test in, though. Five-second rule is a thing, right? It’s probably fine.”
“You should get another one. God knows what kind of residue is floating around in that toilet. If that one’s positive it might meanI’mpregnant.”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Hold on.” There was a shuffling, another ripping of a box, and more crinkling wrappers.
Arthur didn’t love the idea of Wren in the cramped bathroom, sitting on the perma-yellow toilet (they cleaned it frequently—hecleaned it frequently—to no avail), going this alone. He wanted to be in there with her, to hold her hand, even though he wasn’t certain it would help the situation. While it seemed romantic in a sense, practically, holding hands with someone who was peeing would have its challenges.
“We don’t have to do this right now, you know,” he reminded her. It hadn’t exactly been the most well-planned-out operation. Wren had…something. Call it a feeling, a gut instinct, or a feminine intuition. Some magical, almost spiritual divination that a miracle was occurring inside her. Or “My fucking tits hurt,” as she had so eloquently put it at the time. A quick trip to the Dollar Tree for a six-pack of tests and here they were.
“Yes, we do. I won’t be able to enjoy the New Year’s party knowing the champagne might be poisoning the baby, if there is a baby.”
Their friends Charlie and Tristan were hosting a gathering for everyone to watch the ball drop. There’d be fancy dress, passed hors d’oeuvres, and many loud arguments about whether Dick Clark was still alive. It could easily be settled by a two-second Google search, but it would be more fun to shout back and forth about it instead.
“You could just not drink,” Arthur said. “I meanwecould just not drink.”
“I’m not even going to acknowledge that.”
Silence. The anticipation was going to kill him if this went on any longer.
“I think I forgot how to pee,” Wren said after a few moments.
“Sorry?”
“You know when you become aware of every blink or breath and suddenly you don’t remember how to do it automatically anymore? I think I’ve got the opposite of that. I can’t remember how it’s supposed to work. Can you distract me?”
She was probably dehydrated. The woman was incapable of drinking water, only energy drinks, coffee, and red wine. He had to trick her into drinking water by sweetening it up with those little squeeze pouches, pure extract of Red 40. It was like trying to get a kid to eat broccoli by chopping it up and hiding it in mac and cheese. At least, he’d always heard that was a good technique, until he saw a psychologist on TikTok declare that it caused kids to develop trust issues later in life.
“Um…Got any New Year’s resolutions?” he asked. It seemed an appropriate question to pass the time. Midnight was just a few hours away, after all.
“Nothing concrete. I want to do something new with my hair, maybe.”
“Already?” She’d just gotten it cut short a few weeks ago on a whim, unable to wait until summer to chop it all off. He liked it at every length. She always asked him for his opinion, as if he’d have one other than she’d look great whatever she decided to do.
“I might go shorter, or try a new color.”
“Or try shaving it all off. I’ve always said you have a sexy head shape.”
“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. How about you?”
