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I don’t smile at the lame joke. He can’t really see my face, anyway. I just walk out of the gallery and back into the hallway, heading in the direction of the lobby. By some small miracle, we don’t encounter anyone. Crew’s hair is mussed and his shirt is wrinkled. I’m sure it would be obvious to anyone what just took place between us.
The hot air waiting outside smacks me in the face like a sauna, seeping away the cold, dry air conditioning and saturating my dress and hair with humidity instead.
Roman isn’t waiting outside. The car that gets pulled up outside in front of the fountains is Crew’s black Lamborghini.
“Where’s Roman?” I ask as we climb into the car. I was kind of counting on his presence on the drive home.
“I gave him the rest of the night off,” Crew responds.
“Oh.” That’s all I can come up with. I stare out at the city lights instead, right until we pull up to a gas station.
A quick glance at the gauge tells me there’s more than half a tank. We didn’t need to stop. But I say nothing as Crew climbs out. Neither does he. There’s no knowing smile. No joking words. He climbs out and shuts his door with an ominous thud.
Tears burn my eyes as regret simmers in my stomach. I’m braver than this.Strongerthan this. My mood—my emotions—used to be my own. It’s concerning how reliant I’ve become on how Crew acts to inform my own feelings.
I step out of the car, not caring the silk hem of my dress is dragging on the dirty ground. “I’m getting a water.”
A nod is Crew’s only response. The sharp scent of gasoline swirls in the damp air as I cross the parking lot and head into the convenience store. Some pop song streams through the speakers.
“Evening.” The woman behind the counter gives me a tired, perfunctory smile.
I nod in response as I pass the register and head for the coolers in the back. I grab a bottle of Fiji and spin to see…pregnancy tests. A whole shelf of them. Different brands and colors promising quick results. I hesitate. Come up with excuses. I scan the shelves, surprised by the number of different options promising accuracy and quick results.
What’s the difference? It’s just a stick you pee on, right?
With a heavy sigh, I grab three boxes at random and walk to the register, setting the water and the tests down on the scratched plastic counter. The cashier looks at my left hand between ringing the first and second box up. I roll my eyes when she’s not looking.
Marriage doesn’t make you worthy of becoming a mother.
I pay for everything and take the plastic bag, heading back into the humid night air. Crew has finished fueling, but he’s still standing outside the car. His hands are in his tux pockets and his eyes are on the sky. I slow my steps as I approach, drinking the sight of him in.
Watching him, I accept that some part of me wants to hope Iampregnant. Wishes that the test will be positive and that Crew and I have the type of marriage where I’d give him a onesie that said something nauseatingly adorable, likeI love my dad. Where I’d know he wanted a kid because it was a piece of me and him, not an heir to pass an empire of fortune and responsibilities along to.
“Did you get food?” Crew lowers his gaze from the sky and looks at me. Or more specifically, at the bag I’m carrying.
“No.” I reach the passenger door and climb inside.
“Dammit.” Crew settles beside me and closes the door. “I’m starving. The food is always shit at those things.”
Try possibly being pregnant, I think. I say nothing.
“What did you get?”
“Water.” I reach down and grab the plastic bottle out of the bag. The boxes of pregnancy tests audibly shift in a scrape of stiff paper. Crew raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment.
I take a long sip as we speed along the street. The cold water hits my empty stomach, causing a loud gurgle. I suffer through an uncomfortable few seconds as the water warms in my belly before taking a few more, smaller sips. We drive in silence for another ten minutes until Crew unexpectedly pulls over.
“What are you doing?”
“I told you, I’m hungry. So are you, it sounds like.” He flicks on the hazards. “This place has the best fried chicken in the city.”
“There’s food at home.”
“Nothing prepared. I’m not dragging Phillipe out of bed at this hour to make me something.”
“It’s his job.”
“What’s the real issue? You can’t spend ten extra minutes in a car with me?”
