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Our server arrives with our bill, saying, “Please take your time,” while really meaning, “It’s a busy Sunday morning and we need the table.”
I put the credit card in the leather folder and hand it back to the server.
“Dad, can we go buy the pumpkins to carve next?” Turning to Marissa, Nora adds, “We still haven’t decorated for Halloween.”
“That’s a real shame.”
“You want to come with us?” Nora asks.
Marissa hesitates for a second, which I take as a good sign. She’s tempted to say yes. But then she throws a furtive stare at me and I know I’ve lost her. “Thank you, sweetheart, but I have work to do.”
Nora frowns. “Isn’t it Sunday?”
“I’m not going to the office, but I still have the grown-up version of homework to finish.”
“I understand.”
Marissa stands up and drags her bag out of the booth, saying, “Thanks for inviting me to breakfast, Nora, it was delicious. Have fun carving.” Marissa turns to me, her tone growing a notch colder. “Bye, I guess.”
I stand. “I’ll text you.”
Nora gets out of the booth as well and gestures for me to pick her up. We watch Marissa leave the café, and once she disappears down the road, my daughter turns to me. “I like her, Dad.”
“I know, kiddo, but don’t get your hopes up. She might never forgive me.”
30
MARISSA
Monday evening, I have to go to Clinlada to take the blood test and confirm my levels of beta hCG, the pregnancy hormone, are high enough.
I consider texting John to let him know I’ll be at the clinic but decide against it. I’m still too dizzy around him, and this is just a blood test. No images of the baby will be involved, so it’s not like I’m making him miss anything.
I give my name to the receptionist and she escorts me to an examination room, where she tells me to wait for a nurse.
Five minutes later, Dr. Gorgeous walks in instead.
“Marissa,” he greets me, keeping a straight face.
“I thought a nurse was supposed to take my blood.”
He moves to the cabinet and prepares the material. “You received a free upgrade. Please roll up your sleeve.”
Having my blood taken should not be sexy. Needles aren’t sexy. Syringes aren’t sexy. But mix in the fact that John gives me way too much eye contact and has to touch the bare skin of my arm to take the blood, and I’m feeling all tingly.
When he’s done, he puts the sample away and comes back to disinfect the small puncture. Holding my arm while he gently presses the cotton ball on my inner elbow, he locks eyes with me. “By the way, I told the receptionist to alert me whenever you have an appointment. Please don’t shut me out.”
Before I can protest or defend myself, he lets me go and, collecting the sample, heads for the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
And he means it. John texts me every day of the following week. It’s a mix of health inquiries, pregnancy fun facts, corruption attempts for me to agree to go on a real date with him—I hold strong and say no each time— and a few “just because I was thinking about you” texts. Mostly pictures of kittens, or adorable babies with adorable cats.
His texts are the last thing I read before I go to bed. He’s pushing his way back into my life inch by short inch, and I’m not sure how long my defenses can resist.
When someone bangs on my door the next Saturday morning, I’m convinced it’s him. That like with the pregnancy test, he got tired of waiting and is taking me out on a date whether or not I want to go. Do I?
Instead, I find an agitated Blake on my doorstep.
“I’m late,” she announces, pushing her way into my house.
