Page 114 of Halo

“Nothing I want to get into right now.” I keep my eyes on the glass. “And please don't say anything to Matt.”

Rachel rests her hand on my wrist. “Okay. I won't.” Her thumb brushes lightly against my skin. “But just so you know, I'm in your corner. Always. Whatever it is, whenever you're ready, you can tell me—”

“Here we are.” The waitress appears beside our table, balancing two chicken salad sandwiches with a steaming cup of tomato basil soup. A pile of homemade potato chips spills across the side of each plate. “Y'all enjoy.”

I untuck my napkin. “For the record, Rach, we haven't had—”

Rachel shifts suddenly in her seat, one hand pressing against the side of her belly as her face pinches.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She lets out a breath that turns into a laugh. “This little one is sitting weird today. I swear, he or she has been trying to rearrange my organs since breakfast.” She reaches for her sandwich. “Why women want to do this multiple times is beyond me. I told Matt we are one and done.”

I swallow my first bite. “I thought y’all wanted more.”

“Matt wants more.” She scoffs. “Don't get me wrong; I love this baby very much, but I've done my part. I've been nauseous, swollen, constipated, kicked in the ribs, and I haven't seen my vagina in months.” She hisses again, massaging her abdomen as she repositions in her seat. “If Matt wants another one that badly, he can figure out how to grow it himself.”

“Uh-huh,” I tease. “You say that now, but give it six months, and you'll be telling us you're pregnant again.”

“Ha.” Rachel points a potato chip at me. “You assume I'm letting your brother touch me again.”

I chuckle. “Fair.”

“Maybe you'll be pregnant in six months,” she retorts.

I raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

She snickers, finishing her bite. “Yes, you.” She lowers her voice. “Are y'all using protection?”

“Rachel!” I drop my sandwich.

“What?” She takes a sip of water. “I'm just being realistic. Men have needs, and—” she holds up her hands—“Nick is no different. In fact, he's worse. He doesn't know the Lord.”

Heat floods my face as I bite down on my cheek. Nick isn't a wild animal. I'm so sick of reducing men to thoughtless balls of testosterone and using that to excuse their behavior, as if decency and self-control can only come from God, as if they have no choice but to stick their penises anywhere and everywhere. And then, in the same breath, the church tells women that we will be grateful—and pleased—for those wild urges when we're married because apparently, a man's inability to control himself becomes a blessing once there's a ring on his finger.

Men can be absolute dogs, but it sure as hell doesn't seem exclusive to men outside the church. And so far, Nick has shown me more gentleness and restraint than I ever got from my God-fearing husband

“We're not having sex.” My eyes meet Rachel's. “Just for the record. And he's not pressuring me.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Is he only talking to you?”

“Rach—”

“Honest question.” She holds up her hands. “I'm not trying to be hateful. I'm looking out for you.”

“Yes.” As far as I know. “We're talking exclusively to each other.”

Dangit, Leah, now why did you say that?

Nick and I haven't actually talked about being exclusive. I guess I just assumed he was talking only to me. I mean, when would he have time for another woman? We've barely seen each other as is.

Unless he's hooking up with other people

Which would be fine.

I think.

We're not a couple, and he's never promised me anything. So why does the thought of him with someone else bother me so much?