Page 34 of Make it a Double

Olivia:

He asked me to give you his contact information, btw

My stomach did a little flip as I thought about calling him. That didn’t seem like the type of conversation to have over the phone, but maybe I could make an exception this one time.

Me:

What’d you say?

Olivia:

That I’d pass it on, but wouldn’t make any promises about you reaching out. You deserve to make the decision on what happens next.

That was something I appreciated about Olivia. She was a girl’s girl first and foremost. There would be no pressure to make a decision before I was ready, or to push me into one that didn’t make sense for my situation.

The next image was of a cocktail napkin with Beckett’s name, number, and email written in a tidy scrawl. How long had I thought about reaching out, only to eventually talk myself out of it? It wasn’t rational, but I blamed it on the pregnancy hormones. They’d only brought out my bitchier side as I grew more hangry and uncomfortable with each passing day.

Me:

Thank you so much. Do you need me to close tonight? I’m feeling a little bit better than I was this morning.

I was getting better at this whole lying thing because I most certainly did not feel better. Though my current state of nausea had more to do with the prospect of having to tell Beckett I was not only pregnant, but that the baby was his. Hitting him with a “Welcome back to Pinecrest, Beckett! You’re gonna be a dad!” seemed like a one-way ticket to nowhere good.

Olivia:

No. Rest up. I have a feeling you’ll need it. See you tomorrow morning.

Olivia:

BTW, I took the liberty of overnighting you some clothes. They’ll be delivered in the morning.

I typed out a quick thanks before tossing my phone on the empty side of my bed and settling back against my pillows. My bedroom looked slightly better than it had this morning. Boxes were slightly more organized, and I’d begun going through some of the bags of baby clothes to sort them by size.

I was nowhere near ready to be a mom, but that was going to need to change. I mean, I still had glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling from my freshman year. They might not have worked as well as they once did, but looking at them made me smile. They were a reminder not to take life too seriously. A nod to a different, simpler time when I didn’t feel the need to be anything other than a girl who still dreamed.

Maybe I’d leave them up.

Beckett would probably take one look at this place and walk the other way. It was nothing like the marble staircases, gold accents, and private staff I’m sure he was used to. But my home was filled with priceless memories he couldn’t possibly understand or appreciate.

There were height markers on the bathroom door from not only my childhood, but my mom’s, too. The threadbare rug beneath our dining room table was put there before I was born to cover a charred spot in the carpet my mother made when she was trying to cook Grams a Mother’s Day breakfast. My favorite was the tire swing that was falling apart in the backyard. The one I spent my summers on, pretending I could fly.

Ugh. It had seemed like such a great idea at the time to sleep with someone who was the exact opposite of every person I grew up with, but now I had regrets. Whether there was any real weight to them or not was still to be seen, but the prospect of telling Beckett the truth was terrifying.

Would he believe me if I told him? If the roles were reversed, I wasn’t sure if I would. It seemed far too coincidental. I mean, what virgin’s luck is so bad that she gets pregnant the first time she has sex and it’s with a hot billionaire? That seemed more like the plot line for a book than real life.

I had nothing to hide. If he asked for a paternity test, I’d do it. Maybe that would put his mind at ease and show him I’m not some big, fat liar.

Stop it, Sawyer. You’re putting words in his mouth and going off on tirades about things that haven’t even happened yet. You just need to talk to him.

I wanted to talk to Beckett. Really, I did. When I walked in this afternoon, and I heard his voice for the first time, I wanted to run into his arms and cry. He was here. He came for me. To comfort me.

But then I remembered he didn’t know. There was no text message or email sent. No phone call. Nothing. Beckett Montgomery was blissfully unaware that I was carrying his child, and I was left with a secret that was eating me alive.

I rolled over and stared at my phone. Olivia’s text thread was still on the screen, and so was Beckett’s phone number. I should text him at least. Apologize for running out so quickly without explanation. If I did, it could open the doorway for communication about other things.

Like, for instance, a pregnancy announcement.

I copied his phone number and started a new text thread, staring down at the blinking cursor in the message field.