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26. Birthday Surprise
Jules
The morning of my birthday, I awake alone in bed, but the bouquet of colorful tulips on my nightstand brings a smile to my face. Next to the flowers awaits a note.
Happy Birthday to the woman I love. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.
P.S. — Your boss gave you the day off. Go do something special.
Stopping by his office to do him probably isn’t what he meant, so I run through the possibilities—lunch with Les, browsing the offerings at Pike Place, getting my hair done for the party tonight—and that’s when a wave of nausea hits, sending me bolting for the bathroom. I make it just in time, lifting the lid and spewing what little I have left in my gut.
I’ve been vomiting for the last four days. On the first day, I stayed in bed, thinking it was a stomach bug. Ditto on day two. By day three, I was ready to face facts.
Cash and I didn’t use protection that first weekend, and now I’m late and puking my guts out. So naturally, on the fourth day—my fucking birthday of all days—I come to the conclusion it’s time to get confirmation.
I yank open a drawer and pull out the pregnancy test I bought on my way home from work yesterday. After pissing on the little white stick, I replace the cap, set it on the counter, then grip the edge, eyes closed as I tick off the seconds in my head.
180 to be exact. Three minutes. A blip in the grand scheme of life, but in this moment, three minutes mean everything. I place a hand over my belly, and a thick lump of excitement lodges in my throat.
Part of me wants this baby.
Just three weeks ago, Cash mentioned white picket fences and children, but I couldn’t see past the ring on his finger. Now his hand is free of jewelry that obligated him to another woman. Divorce papers have been filed, and Monica was arraigned on a plea deal last week to pay for her crime.
Everything we hoped for is spread out before us.
I open my eyes and glance down at the stick. My pulse takes off in a gallop upon the plus sign I find there, and I let out a sob full of laughter. My head is reeling as I return to the bedroom and begin dressing for the day.
A day that’s open in front of me, waiting for me to do whatever I want with it. Grabbing my purse and cell, I head toward the door and pull it open. The last person I expect to find on the other side, fist poised to knock, is my sister.
Brit raises her gaze to mine. “Can we talk?”
I fold my arms. “I guess you’re not giving me a choice. You and Chris have that in common, among other things.” I should have anticipated her pulling the same move Chris did after I refused her phone calls, but I didn’t think Brit cared enough to fly all the way out here.
And yet here she is. My sister’s lush, ebony locks are gathered into a ponytail, and she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup. Her eyes—normally a light sea-blue—are muted with exhaustion.
I turn on my heel, leaving the door wide open. That’s the only invitation she’ll get from me. The door closes behind her, and she loiters on the edge of the living room.
“I like your apartment. It’s cute.”
By cute she means small.
“It’s all I could afford in this area.”
Taking another cautious step, she wrings her hands. “I came to apologize.”
“This isn’t something you can fix with an apology, Brit. I didn’t expect other women in Whiskey Flats to keep their hands off of Chris, but you’re my sister.” I glare at her. “Did you jump into his bed before or after I cried my eyes out to you?”
She wanders to the living room window. “It happened the night you were with Perry.” A flick of her blue eyes in my direction tells me she isn’t nearly as remorseful as she’d have me believe. “And we…well, we hooked up after you left.”
“How many times?”
She purses her lips, and that’s all the answer I need. She fucked my ex-boyfriend enough times to earn her the Shittiest Sister of the Year award.
My stomach cramps, reminding me that I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I fight the urge to bolt to the toilet again. I stalk into the kitchen and drop a slice of bread into the toaster. If I weren’t so angry with Brit, I’d offer her something to eat.
“I hope you and Chris will be happy together. You deserve each other.” Filling a mug with water for tea, I follow her slow movement across the narrow space to the other side of the bar.
“He’s in love with you.” She slides onto a barstool. “I’d kill for someone to care about me like that.”
