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She’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but that’s nothing new. I get her up and out, washed and fed in no time. It’s so easy to push Coach’s bullshit, Holly’s bullshit, and this tangled tango Olivia and I are doing to the side while I’ve got my daughter in my presence. She really is a little ray of sunshine.
With her strapped to my chest, I check the chores Olivia has jotted down for today. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms.
Cool. I already cleaned up after myself, so bathroom it is.
“You can’t chill with Daddy for this one,” I coo to Violet. “Chemicals are bad. Can you say chemicals?”
She gurgles at me, making a sound that kind of resembles a C, but everything else is gibberish.
“Heh. Close enough.”
Back upstairs, I set up the baby gate at the top of the stairs and put her in her walker so she can meander back and forth in the hallway while I clean, starting in the bathroom. It’s been a while since I’ve really cleaned. When Olivia and I made it official, there was one thing she insisted on: allowing her to take care of things in the house.
At first, I was against it. I have a housekeeper for a reason. Besides, if she was my girlfriend, she deserved to have every comfort I could offer her and nothing less.
Olivia is stubborn, though. Like an ox. Or, as she points out, like the Capricorn she is.
Guess you can’t argue with the stars, even if you don’t understand any of that shit. I sure as fuck don’t.
It was an easy break, since Gladys was already gearing up for retirement. No hard feelings there. So now, I get to enjoy the feeling of actually keeping up my own place for the first time in years.
It feels really fucking domestic. The kind of shit married couples do. Could that be in our future?
My mind begins to wander, thinking about the logistics. It’s early by most standards to even consider it, but now that the thought has taken root, I can’t shake it. What if?
That’s the question of the damn year.
I get caught up in that feedback loop of what if, so much that, as I’m sweeping up the bathroom, I almost miss the fact there’s something big and plastic in the pile of general dirt and scuzz. Curious, I bend down and pick up.
And then I realize what it is.
“What the fuck?”
A used pregnancy test, with a big black O on the screen. Is that… a confirmation? Is it negative?
It clicks in the back of my mind that Olivia’s ‘sickness’ might not be sickness at all. Don’t pregnant women throw up all the time?
The thought that Olivia would hide this from me flares something hot in my chest. As I go to barrel into our room and demand answers, my phone starts ringing.
It’s Elliot.
I struggle. I need to solve this problem. But what if Elliot has news? What if he found the nail in the coffin I’d get to bury Holly’s lies in?
I growl and storm into the guest bedroom, answering. “Make this quick, El. I got some shit going on.”
“Good morning to you, too, Reesy baby. Really great to get in touch with you,” he answers back, sarcasm dripping.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously. What’s up? Any news? Break it to me fast.”
“Well, we’ll start with… good news?”
“Why is that a question?”
“It’s good, according to a certain perspective, I guess. Less good according to another.”
“Get on with it.”
I hear papers ruffle in the background, straightening out before Elliot gets on with it. “Well, my P.I.’s been tailing Holly. She’s got a house just outside of Dallas?—”
