I toss the test back into the trash and cover it with a tissue, on the off chance she comes into this bathroom to ... I don’t fucking know. Check on it?
Then I wash my hands.
“I’m not going to say anything,” I tell my reflection in the mirror before sitting on the toilet for a bit more privacy.
Not yet.
Ten minutes later she’s in the kitchen, rummaging in the pantry like nothing’s wrong. Hair up in a messy knot, cozy robe, humming to herself like she didn’t just maybe pee on a stick and toss it in the guest bathroom trash.
“Hey,” I say casually.
“Hey,” she says, not looking up. “You hungry?”
“Nope. Just ... wondering how your day’s going.”
That earns me a look over her shoulder. “Since I last saw you a half hour ago?”
“Cool, cool.” I nod, hovering. “Any, uh—surprises?”
She turns. “Like what?”
“Just surprises. Unexpected things. Twists and turns.”
Now she’s suspicious, and she squints her eyes. “Are you trying to tell meyoudid something?”
I lean on the counter. “I’m not. But hypothetically—if someonehada secret. Something important. Kind of health adjacent? Possibly involving, oh—I don’t know—a store run and a brief moment of panic?”
She freezes.
Gotcha.
“What the hell are you even talking about?” Annabelle turns her back again and takes down a bag of popcorn.
“I don’t know—what do you think I’m talking about?”
She scoffs, still not facing me. “You are being so annoying.”
“Annoying?” I feign offense. “Wow. I thought I was being inquisitive. Curious. Intellectually engaged.”
“No, you’re being weird.” She rips open the popcorn bag and tosses it in the microwave, sets it for three minutes, poking the button in an irritated fashion.
I stroll to the fridge, open it, grab a soda, simply so I can brush my arms against her. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to have a baby with a terrible name? Like Peach or Maverick Junior?”
She freezes. “Why would I wonder that?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Just seems like a thing people think about. When they’re at the store. Buying snacks.”
We wait in silence. The microwave beeps. She opens it, snatches the bag out, and gives it a shake with more aggression than necessary.
“You know what else is wild?” I say casually, popping the soda tab. “How babies can’t hold their own heads up for months. Like—evolution really dropped the ball on that one.”
She freezes mid-shake. “Callum.”
I love it when she uses my real name. Have I mentioned that enough times?
“Seriously. You ever try holding a six-pound meat loaf that randomly flails and screams and shits itself?”
She stares at me, blinking.
