Page 90 of Please Open Me
She froze, spine stiffening.
“I told you, I’m not pregnant.” Accent thicker now—her pissed-off tell.
“I know. Just… Humor me? Please?”
Her mouth went flat, but she didn’t throw it back at me. Instead, she dog-eared the page, shut the book with a soft thunk, and handed it over like she wanted to stab me with it.
“I’ll be back, but this is ridiculous.”
She shoved herself out of the swing, not gracefully, and brushed past me. I followed. Close enough to keep her in sight, far enough she wouldn’t think I was hovering. Which I was.
We stopped in the bathroom doorway. She spun around and hit me with a glare that could strip paint. “What, first you don’t trust me not to lie to you, and then you don’t trust me to pee on a stick?”
The worst part was that everything in her tone screamed guilty conscience. But I couldn’t say that without detonating the whole room.
“Masie, I remember how nervous you were with Rosie. I just want to be here for you because I love you.”
Her glare wavered for a fraction of a second before she rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
She stepped inside, tests in hand, fingers shaking.
“If you’re nervous, I can read the instructions—”
“I’m not nervous. I’m pissed.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “You said you didn’t want another baby. I told you I’m not pregnant. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?” Her lip trembled, eyes glossy. “Right now, Lucian isn’t my person.Youare. Just like last year, before we moved here. Why would I do anything to upset you?”
That stopped me. Not because it was romantic, but because Mason didn’t give reassurances unless she meant them. And she’d just handed me one for free.
I reached for her hand and pulled her closer. She stayed stiff. I pushed harder, one step, then two, until she collided with my chest. Her breath came in warm bursts against my sternum.
“Mason, what are you scared of?”
“Nothing.” Her voice rumbled against me. “I just don’t like that you don’t trust me.”
And I didn’t like that Mattie’s smug “I know something you don’t” was still playing in my head like a scratched record.
“I trust you,” I said anyway. “I just… want to make sure. You’re acting weird.”
She nodded twice, wiping her eyes. “Are you staying in here while I do it?”
“I am.”
“Then look away. The idea of being watched while I pee makes me nervous.”
Fine. I turned around, promised my eyes were closed, and listened—yes, listened—like a creep. The box tearing. Footsteps. The flush.
I set a five-minute timer. She put the test face down on the back of the toilet. We waited. The air felt thick, familiar, like déjà vu from another continent, another lifetime.
When the timer chimed, she reached for it.
“Actually, I’ll do it,” I said.
Her hand froze midair, then lowered.
“Quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid,” she muttered.
I flipped it. My heart stopped.
“Well?” she asked, and for the first time in hours, I heard something nervous in her voice.
