Page 104 of His Passerotta

I purse my lips, puzzled by that one, and she swats her hand dramatically.

“I know, I know, his parents are dicks.”

“Anya Ash doesn’t sound much better.”

“Yeah, well, this is Spring Fling, not my wedding.” She winks then raises from her chair abruptly, turning to my mirror and toying with her freshly-curled, blonde locks.

“Not bad, Bails.”

“Bails? Like Hay bales?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, I’ll work on the nickname.”

“You about ready?” Maksim asks, poking his head in my bathroom door. “You’re going to be late.”

“Part of the plan, bro. I like to make them sweat.”

Maksim makes a face that makes me think he might be the one nauseous now. If I thought Corey was a handful at this age, Maksim feels my pain. I barely contain my laughter.

Anya skips from the bathroom, brushing past her brother and giving me a farewell over her shoulder. Maksim sighs before slapping his hand on the doorframe and standing up straight. “Thanks again, Bailey.”

I smile. “My pleasure.”

“Do you want some?—”

“Don’t you dare.”

He smiles appreciatively before pushing off the frame and heading out into the hallway. I slump into the chair Anya occupied, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. I don’t know where I heard that it helps with nausea or even if it’s just an instinct, but I’ve used that technique quite a bit lately. I don’t think it works.

The front door slams, leaving Anthony and I alone in the apartment. My eyes are drawn to the drawer I shoved the life-changing piece of plastic that’s been on my mind for three days now.

I haven’t spoken to Anthony about it. Not yet. I’ve been telling myself he’s been too stressed with a new hotel opening only a month ago. And that I’m waiting for the right time. But it’s bullshit. I’m just a chicken.

“Babe?” Anthony calls, peeking into the bedroom where I see him through the adjoining bathroom door. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” I lie. I’ve been living on saltine crackers for days. “I’ll be right there.”

He smiles before disappearing. All at once, nausea overtakes me, and I barely make it to the toilet before my stomach empties.

See? Told you the breathing exercise doesn’t work.

Pushing back my hair, I flush the toilet and clean my mouth out. By the time I make it into the kitchen, Anthony’s pouring me a bowl of hot, chicken tortilla soup.

“Hey, babe,” he says to me, handing me the bowl. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” The spice from the soup hits my nose, and while normally this is my go-to sick food, it turns my stomach. I twirl the spoon in the bowl and set it on the counter.

He glances at it but says nothing, and I love him for it. He never holds anything against me. Never questions my decisions. Never lays down any judgment. We aren’t married, but already he’s a great husband. And I know he’ll be a great father.

“I got you something today,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts. I blink and right myself as he plucks a plastic bag off the counter. I take it from him and pull out the cardboard box containing a pregnancy test. The fifth one I’ve seen in the last few days.

“I know it’s wishful thinking,” he says, his finger tapping on his thigh like it does when he’s nervous. “But your stomach bug is lasting a little long, don’t you think?”

“Wishful thinking?” I inch toward him as my lips twitch with a smile. “You would be happy if I was pregnant?”

“Fuck yeah, I would be happy,” he says like it’s a ridiculous question. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time?”

“Oh that’s why you’ve been fucking me.” I snort. “Okay.”

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