Page 23

Nothing new.

Rook and I rarely messaged, and he certainly never sent me a ‘thinking of you’ or ‘on the way’ message. Maybe it’s the hormones in me hoping he’d have a bigger presence now that we’ve had sex.

And I’m thinking like a clingy girlfriend.

No one wants that. Mama made that very clear to me growing up. Her voice still echoes in my mind.

“Feed him well, let him watch his sports, and he’ll never leave.”

But she left out the part about putting out and getting pregnant before marriage. I wasn’t waiting for marriage but just the right one.

I lay the heating pad over my lower abdomen again as its warmth contrasts intoxicatingly against my cool skin. I soak up the cramp relief as much as it can dull them and turn the TV off. I doomscroll videos on my phone instead, ignoring any video of Rook the algorithm pushes to my feed.

My head sinks into the pillow, and I wait for my eyelids to get heavy. I should use this time to reply to comments, DMs, and even emails, but I just want to watch videos of puppies and dollhouses. I particularly love videos of mini-kitchens with mini-ingredients and dishes where they make real food with those things. It itches my brain in a good way hearing the doll-sized dishes clink.

Just then, my phone vibrates in my hand with a notification from my front camera. And then the doorbell camera.

Oh, no… Not tonight.

Did I manifest him by thinking about how I wished he were in my life more? I sit up and hear the front door shut downstairs. My throat clenches up, and I’m hyperaware of my breathing and pulse.

His big silhouette shows in the doorway to my room, filling most of it with his tall and broad frame. A tear falls from my eye immediately. I don’t even have pepper spray nearby—not that I could stop him if I tried.

“I’m sorry, Rook, I can’t. Not tonight,” I start to beg. He hasn’t cared about what I’ve been up to, just takes without regard for me. Not that I’ve minded, but this is different. “No, really, I’m on my period, and it’s…it’s awful.” I watch as he enters the room.

He can’t be serious.

“Oh, Apps,” he whispers.

A nickname?

I can’t read his tone, and my eyes widen in horror as he pulls his shirt over his head. It’s too dark to make out his face as usual, but I can tell what he’s doing well enough. His jeans make a soft thud on the floor. I gasp, standing up.

I really can’t do this.

I feel a gush between my legs from the gravity, followed by a cramp that slices through my lower abdomen, and I double over at the edge of the bed. The bed shifts, and I hear a quiet creak of the box springs. Rook lies down on the opposite, always vacant side. “Come here.”

“Why? What are you…?”

“Just trust me, for fuck’s sake.” His voice is always a whisper. Like he’s afraid of letting me hear his full voice.

I hesitantly lie back next to him, and he pulls me right into his arms. He’s warm-skinned, just as I remember. His firm abdomen heats mine, probably better than my stupid heating pad would. He gently sets his hand at the back of my head, holding me tenderly to his chest. I breathe in his musky scent, but he smells faintly like something herbaceous, too. There’s something cool on his chest, and I cautiously reach up to run my fingertips over it.

A smooth cross with beveled edges on a sturdy chain.

Rook’s a man of faith?

I wrap my arm around his torso, tracing my fingers down the contours of his back. His chin presses on the top of my head. His heartbeat rings loudly in my ear, pressed against his chest, and I’m completely trapped in the unexpected domestic comfort of his grasp. He only comes around for one thing, and this is far from it.

He’s still in his briefs, and that’s reassurance enough that nothing further will happen tonight. I allow my body to relax and press my ear to his chest. The sound of his heartbeat thudding in his chest makes me realize he’s a person. Of course he’s a real person, but this could be someone who wants to love me, too. His groin hardens, pressing into my thigh, and I look up at him even if I can’t make out his expression.

“Don’t worry about that,” he whispers into my hair, making my cheek, pressed against his chest, vibrate. He adds a soft chuckle as if he’s slightly embarrassed.

How could he still want me when I’m bleeding, bloated, not cute, and my hair’s a mess?

After a few silent moments, I clear my throat. “You’re warm,” I mumble. His fingers graze over my wild hair, smoothing out my frizzy curls to no avail as they spring back, and I should feel content with Rook’s soft side present in my bed. But my stomach flips instead, and I desperately try to break free from his arms. He drops them as soon as I try to pull back, and I stumble but try to rush to my en suite bathroom with a hand over my mouth.

By some miracle, I make it to the toilet and hurl until nothing is left, leaving an acidic sting in the back of my mouth. The cold tile against my legs makes my knees ache, and I press my forehead into my palm and wait to see if my stomach will flip again.