Page 119 of Bona Fide

She knows.

I mean, would it be such a surprise that I know everything that’s going on in my own house?

“Stop having your little assistant spy on me, Wade,” she fumes. “I’m your wife, not North Korea or any terrorist group that you—”

“Relax,” I soothe, folding my hands over my stomach. “You don’t want to stress yourself out in case you want to try again for another fake baby.”

Demi jerks from her chair and stands, towering over my desk like she’s about to flip it to pin me underneath.

It’d be a good training exercise, I wonder how long it would take for one of my agents to run in here.

“This could be a new start for us,” she quips. “A baby, Wade, a baby.” Her eyes glint with hope and happiness. And I swear I think I see tears about to glisten in them.

Funny, I remember me having the same reaction almost a decade ago.

“Demi!” My heart is lodged in my throat, and I’m surprised I’m able to even say her name. My hands can’t stop shaking as I hold the numerous doctor pamphlets of how to deal after an abortion and some other shit about prevention.

A baby.

A small, helpless thing—she wouldn’t—

“Yes!” she counters back from upstairs. “Hold on one second.”

My eyes begin to blur and burn as I continue to stare down at what I found. They were in a manila envelope with no name. I thought maybe they were my notes or something dropped off for me from my dad. He was always leaving shit for me to study or read so that when I ran for governor in about two years, I’d be better set up.

I hear the clicking of my wife’s heels as she strides across the pristine marble-tiled floors. Then descends down the staircase as each clack ticks at my already wrecked nerves.

She knows I want a family. How I dream of teaching our kids the basics like how to play sports and go on trips together. How I wanted to be a father that showed them how much I loved them without question. To make them better than me.

“What is it?” Demi asks off an exasperated sigh like I’m bothering her. As if I’m some fucking pain in the ass now that we’re married.

Our honeymoon phase is over and done. The real work has begun, and she doesn’t try. With each passing day, I try to understand and be involved with her hobbies and day-to-day, but she could give two flying fucks about me.

Turning on my heel, I crush the papers in my hands, wrinkling and destroying the evidence of what I think she’s done.

What I’m praying to God that she hasn’t done.

“What is this?” I seethe through my tightened jaw. I stretch it to keep it from shattering into pieces on the floor. But I don’t know how to keep my heart from doing the same if she confirms what I think I’ve already confirmed.

“What is what?” she snarks in my direction, head cocked to the side as she fidgets putting on one of her earrings. Her hair falls to the side, exposing her neck and the many times I’ve licked and tasted her flesh there.

Now...now I want to wrap my hands around it and dig the tips of my fingers into her windpipe.

“Did your dad drop off more—” She stops as she notices the glossy brochures burning a hole through my palm.

“What did you do, Dem?” I quake, tremoring in anxiety as she blankly stares back at me. “Please don’t tell me you…” I can’t finish the words. There would be no way she’d ever do this to me. I’ve always wanted kids, ever since I was one. I wanted to make a generation of my own, with pattering little feet and curls that I had zero clue how to manage. I crave to love something more than myself. Little beings that I can help nurture and pass my wisdom down to.

Demi married me knowing this. I’ve never kept a thing from her. She knows all my dreams and ambitions. Everything I’ve ever desired in life.

“I couldn’t do it,” she surmises as she begins to fiddle with her wedding ring. “I couldn’t—”

“What couldn’t you do?” I counter. “What cou—Dem, I’m here for you. I’m not—did you…” She hits my anguish with a stone-cold scowl then raises her chin. Which is never good if you knew my wife.

Demi tailored herself in a suit of steel when she had something she wanted or needed to say. And none out of ten times, that said person wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I had an abortion, Wade. I didn’t want a baby.”

My brows furrow. “What? What do you mean? We’ve talked about—five kids. Five, Demi, we both agreed on it. You want two boys and three girls. And I don’t care what we have, I just know that—”

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