The real question for Flynn was, what would she want to do about it if she was?
It wasn’t his decision, but if she asked what he wanted her to do… Shit, be honest? Or refuse to say so she wouldn’t feel pressured? But refusing to say, was that supporting her choice or was that forcing her to make it completely on her own? He thought he knew what he’d want her to do, but it felt so goddamn delicate, the question of whether or not to say.
She might not be pregnant. Probably isn’t. Some cramps and hot flashes could be anything, and feeling exhausted after waitressing all day was to be expected. The female body was like a car with no manual, a mystery designed to confound and bewitch the simple male brain. A man was lucky to get invited to dick around under the hood and go for a spin, but fuck if any of them knew how to service the thing.
He pulled up behind his building, yellow streetlight making the steadily fattening snowflakes glow like gold. The plastic bag felt monumental in his grip, as though he were lugging a bomb, not a couple pounds of snacks and feminine hygiene products.
Not a bomb, he corrected. A pregnancy was scary and profound and life-altering, but that was a metaphor too far. Still, his hand was shaking unmistakably as he unlocked the door.
“Honey, I’m home. Got you booze and chips and a stick for peeing on. You on the rag yet?”
A laugh answered that crass greeting, loosening his chest, if only by a fraction. “No, I am not.”
He flipped the deadbolt, rummaged in the bag and pitched the box toward the bed where she was lounging. “Best pee on a stick then, woman.”
She’d changed into her pajamas—or rather, her pajama bottoms and one of his tee shirts. Why was that so fucking sexy? Though he was grateful to register any reaction apart from anxiety, he set the thought aside. Answers first, then depravity. We can fuck to celebrate, if it’s negative.
Laurel knelt and picked up the box, studying it. She opened it while Flynn peeled off his layers.
“Thanks for doing this.” She unfolded the instructions. “Going out in that.”
“It was nothing. Go pee on a stick,” he repeated.
“The snow’s picking up,” she said, still reading.
“Go pee on a stick.”
She met his eyes, smiled dryly. “I guess I’ll go pee on a stick, then.”
“What a good idea. How long does it take to get the answer?”
She scanned the paper. “Three minutes. Wow, that sounds really fast and like forever at the same time.”
Well put. “There’s chips and wine, while you wait.”
She smiled. “Classy. If it comes back a plus sign I better spit the booze out, huh?”
There was a joke in there, but he barely heard it, caught too completely on plus sign. Plus sign. How could one shape—two fucking little perpendicular lines—possibly be so powerful?
Then he thought of the cross, that symbol that had dominated his childhood and bullied his psyche, and somehow it made perfect sense.
Fuck you, lines.
At least these lines would bring answers. The other kind had done nothing but torment and confuse and contradict.
Right. Now, to survive the longest three minutes of his entire life.
5
Laurel crept out of the bathroom practically on tiptoes, paranoid any sudden movement might somehow queer the test.
Flynn was planted at the edge of the mattress, hands clasped between his knees. “Well?”
“I just did it. Two minutes to go, probably.” She wished she hadn’t done the dishes already. A chore would be a welcome distraction.
“That took ages.”
“I know.” She flopped down beside him, splaying her hands on her belly and staring up at the ceiling. “I read the instructions, like, eight times. If we only had the one test, I wasn’t looking to send you back out in the snow.”
“How hard can it be? ‘Step one, pee on stick.’”
She let her arm fall back behind her, smacking his side. “It’s trickier than that. You have to angle it and stuff, and pee for just the right amount of time.”
“Good thing you’re an engineer.”
She shot him a look. “Are you being mean to me?”
“No, sorry. Not on purpose. Fuck, I’m fucking nervous.”
Laurel softened. “Me too.” She sat up and circled a hand over his back. “Have you ever done this before?”
“No.”
“I swear I’ve been taking the pills correctly.”
“I believe you. You won’t even let the toilet paper hang facing the wall—no way you’d get sloppy about that sort of thing.”
“It’ll probably be negative. The chances are really low.”
“Maybe I have, like, stealthy-ass fuckin’ Jason Bourne sperm that snuck by your defenses.”
She snorted. “My uterus isn’t a Swiss bank. It doesn’t work like that, anyhow. It suppresses eggs from being released.”
“My sperm are so powerful your eggs couldn’t resist them.”
“My God, if it’s positive you’re going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. After I regain consciousness. Think it’s been three minutes?”
Her hand stilled. “Yeah. But I’m too scared to check.”