Page 113 of Possessive Ink

Making a beeline for our bedroom, I walk straight into the bathroom and place my bag down on the counter. I don’t know why, but instead of taking out all the things I bought, I take a step back and stare at the bag like I’m worried it’s going to attack me.

After a few long moments, I retreat, leaving the bag untouched, and head into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pulling out one of the bottles of peppermint iced mocha that Atticus keeps buying for me.

Unscrewing the lid, I take a long sip, then exhale and carry the bottle over to the couch with me. Sinking down into the cloud couch, I slip my feet out of my shoes, then pull my feet up, curling into a ball as I try to ignore the bag in the bathroom.

I’m not pregnant. I’m on birth control. It’s all in my head.

Only it feels like I can almost hear the test in the bathroom judging me. “You don’t buy pregnancy tests unless you think you’re pregnant,” the little voice in the back of my head taunts.

Turning the TV on, I try to tune the voices in my head out, but after an hour, all I can think about is the stupid, mocking, judging test. Jumping up from the couch, I march into the bathroom and tip the bag upside down on the counter.

Half of the things I bought roll onto the floor, and I close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing. “You’re being ridiculous,” I say to myself. Crouching down, I pick up the bottles of shampoo and soap and stack them in the cabinet. My eyes land on the box of pregnancy tests that have slid under the counter. For a moment I consider leaving them there, hidden and forgotten about, but if I don’t take a test, I’ll never be able to put this stupid idea behind me.

I don’t want to, but I need to do the stupid test so I can prove what I already know. That I’m not pregnant. Because I’m not pregnant. I’m not.

My hands are shaking a little as I pick up the box and push to my feet with it gripped in my fingers. Instead of buying the fancy one that literally says pregnant or not pregnant, I got the basic one that you have to dip into a cup of pee.

I’ve never taken one before, but I’ve seen enough of the pregnancy test roulette videos on social media to know what to do. Wasting time, I put away everything other than the tests, then leave the box on the counter in the bathroom while I head back into the kitchen to find a cup to pee into.

Everything the interior designer who decorated the loft bought for them is fancy, but luckily, I find a pack of Solo cups at the back of the cabinet. Pulling one free from the stack, I carry it back into the bathroom with me.

Lifting my skirt, I sit down on the toilet and hold the cup beneath me, then pee, grimacing at the way the sound of the liquid hitting the cup seems to echo around the room. Once I’m done, I place the cup inside the sink, then clean up, moving it to the counter while I wash my hands.

With trembling fingers, I rip open the packet of tests and pull one free. Outside of the foil packet, it’s just a thin strip of plastic with arrows at one end to show which side to dip. Carefully lowering it into the cup, I immediately start to panic, realizing I’m not sure how long it has to stay dipped for.

Grabbing the box, I quickly read the instructions on the back, then count fifteen Mississippis in my head before I lift it out and place it carefully down on top of the foil wrapper on the counter.

The instructions say that you have to wait three minutes for the result, so I set a timer on my cell, then step back and back again until I’m in the doorway to the bedroom. Part of me wants to throw it in the trash right now, but I know I won’t. I need to know for sure. I need to know for my own peace of mind.

My gaze locks on the test, and even though I try, I can’t look away. I can’t really see the strip from here, but my mind convinces me that unless I’m watching it, it could miraculously grow legs and swap places with someone else’s test.

Oh god, I really am losing my mind, but I still don’t blink, my eyes hurting from how hard I’m staring. When the timer on my cell sounds, the air turns to concrete in my chest, and I can’t breathe.

After a second of feeling like my lungs have forgotten how to inflate, I suck in a huge gasping breath as lightheadedness makes the room spin and my vision go dark at the edges.

Turning off my cell, I try to move, but I feel frozen to the spot. My stomach is a swarm of butterflies, but I manage to take a step forward, then another, until the strip is right there, only inches from me, but I can’t look. I won’t look.

Closing my eyes, I force myself to inhale, then, as I exhale, I open my eyes and look down.

“Oh fuck.”

SEVENTEEN

ATTICUS

Something is wrong. I don’t know what, but there’s this feeling in my gut that is nagging at me. Betty, Etta, Octy, Leo, and Knight all got back a few hours ago. The girls wouldn’t tell me anything other than that Lemon had found a dress that she absolutely loves and that the rest of the girls were taking her to lunch.

But that was four hours ago. Even the longest of lunches would have been over by now, and she still hasn’t called or texted me. Part of me had expected her to come to me, but we hadn’t made plans, and she knows that I’m working.

Still, it’s rare that we choose to spend time apart when we could be together, even if it’s while the other is working. I’ve practically got my own seat at the patisserie. I’ve eaten so many sweets in the past month that I’ve had to start doubling my workouts just to counteract all the baked goods I’m eating.

So why isn’t she here? Perhaps she’s gone to look for shoes or other wedding accessories. That would make sense, but she hasn’t texted me to tell me that either. Forcing myself to focus on the tattoo I’m doing, I push thoughts of Lemon to the back of my mind and concentrate.

An hour later, I’m done, and my client is staring at the hyper-realistic portrait I’ve put on his arm like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“It’s her,” he says, emotion thickening his voice. “Atticus, Jesus, it’s…it’s her. Thank you. Fuck, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. I’m really glad you’re happy with it,” I tell him.