Page 101 of Call You Mine
Anderson had asked me about taking Georgie to the record store today, and I think it’s slowly becoming a tradition of theirs to play whatever record they pick up from front to back, listening to it together.
I was so confused at first when he asked if it was okay to take her while I was at work, not because of what he was asking, butbecausehe asked.
For some reason, I forgot that she was mine. Not ours.
“Hey.” I close the distance between Anderson and me, stopping at a reasonable distance. Seeing him in an apron, his hair swept back as if he just ran his hand through it, a small smile under a more-defined mustache than usual that he’s been sporting the last week or two, is too domestic for me to handle.
My skin heats at the way his lips curve into a smile as he takes me in.
We haven’t had much time to talk since that night before we got married, alone in our hotel room.
The day after the concert was filled with shopping with Emerson and Rumi while Jack and Anderson did some sightseeing. We had dinner reservations, and then Emerson andRumi insisted that Anderson and I stay apart while we got ready and arrived at the Little White Chapel.
I couldn’t find it in me to argue, foggy from exhaustion and coming down from the high of the kiss the night before. I was surprised by how nervous I was, needing time with my friends to gather my bearings and get my mind off what was about to happen.
I thought maybe my nerves came from the finality of signing the papers,actuallygetting married. Committingfraud.But that wasn’t it.
My nervous system couldn’t tell the difference between a fake marriage and a real one—the butterflies in my stomach were almost debilitating, but in a way I welcomed rather than fought.
I was about to marry the man I’m falling in love with.
And he’ll never know.
“You made dinner?” I ask, finding the dining table set and oven trays covering the counter filled with perfectly cooked steaks, crispy potato wedges, and grilled asparagus. My stomach growls again, even louder this time.
“I did,” Anderson says, his smile deepening, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle, and my knees threaten to buckle.
Thishasto be the pregnancy hormones.
Right?
My lips part to say something, even though my mind muddles, the thoughts going quiet.
I need to tell him about the pregnancy—possiblepregnancy—since the last time Anderson and I had sex was about six weeks ago, I’m going off of that for an estimation of how far along I am.
But I’m still not completely convinced.
I need to check again.
The positive pregnancy test could explain the intense exhaustion I’ve been feeling, but I haven’t had any othersymptoms. No morning sickness, no food aversions, no crazy cravings.
And I’ve been trying to figure out how this is possible—still in a state of denial.
False positives happen.
Probably about as often as getting pregnant while taking birth control pills and using condoms.
I don’t even know what I’m going to do myself, but Anderson deserves to know—I know he’ll let me choose how to move forward, but I just need to be sure it’sactuallypositive before I tell him—before I decide what I want to do.
False positives happen.
I just need to check again.
Still, it doesn’t really make sense.
I’m practically religious about taking my birth control pill. With a timer on my phone to take it at the same time every morning, never missing one.
I’ve been racking my brain about how this could even be possible.
