Page 139 of Puck Princess

As pathetic as it sounds, I already miss her.

45

CALLIE

The only thing better than spending the day at my baby shower, surrounded by family and friends and Owen, while wearing a gorgeous sundress that I actually bought in the maternity section along with a pair of strappy, flat sandals that didn’t kill my feet… is taking it all off the second I get home.

I felt a little bad for shoving Owen in the direction of his teammates. God only knows what kind of post-shower nonsense they’ll get up to tonight. I left Owen completely at their mercy. But honestly, an evening to myself is worth whatever Owen has to go through tonight.

Kennedy tried to convince me that us girls needed to have a post-shower party, too, but I said I wanted to stay in. To which Uncle Randy suggested a rousing game of Scrabble while he watched hockey highlights.

Thank God for pregnancy exhaustion as a built-in excuse to get out of literally everything.

Now, I’m at home, showered, and wearing nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and one of Owen’s jerseys from college. I toss a bagof popcorn in the microwave and set the timer before padding my way to the living room, remote control and mocktail in hand.

“What’s it going to be, baby girl?” I ask out loud.

I read in some article that it’s good to talk to her and let her hear my voice. Not just my everyday voice—the one I use to tell Dax he hasn’t been keeping up with his stretches and the way Kennedy and I cackle over the pop culture podcast she got me hooked on a few years ago—but the way my voice sounds specifically when I’m talking to her. My daughter.

“We could do a romcom. Or a mystery! If you take after me, you’ll loveNancy Drewand Agatha Christie.” I scroll through the Netflix offerings. “Or a scary movie?”

I’ve never watched a scary movie alone and had it go well, but I can never seem to resist the thrill of it. Plus, Owen will be home eventually. And if things get really spooky, Kennedy is right next door.

I dump the popcorn in a ceramic bowl and take it to the coffee table. Then I shut off the lights and hit play onI Know What You Did Last Summer.

“This is the first scary movie I ever watched,” I tell her. “It’s still secretly my favorite, but only because Freddie Prinze Jr. is a babe. Don’t tell your dad I said that.”

I grin.Dad. Owen is going to be a dad.

This girl is going to be so lucky to have him.

“Keep that little secret to yourself, and I’ll let you watch this cheese scary movie when you’re thirteen, too.”

Cut to: forty-five minutes later, and the movie I swore was cheesy has me huddled under a blanket, my knees pulled to my chest—or as close as I can get with this bump.

“You know what?” I whisper in the direction of my stomach. “This movie might actually be kind of scary.”

Sarah Michelle Gellar is running through town, being chased by the murderer, and I suddenly wish I was watchingBuffy the Vampire Slayer. I need her to give up the scared girl routine, turn around, and stake Mr. Hook For Hands in his heart and end this movienow.

My hand is on the remote, ready to turn off the TV and put something safe on, when her character finally reaches her sister’s clothes shop. Just as she bangs on the glass shop door, there’s a loud bang on my side of the screen. I jump so hard, I nearly fall off of the couch.

“Shit! What was that?”

I pause the movie. My heart is slamming into my ribcage, but I’m not breathing as I look around the room. Every dark shadow and blanket draped over a chair is now a fisherman with a hook he wants to impale me with.

“Don’t be stupid,” I whisper to myself.

It’s probably the people in the unit upstairs. They decide to cosplay as a tap dancing octopus at random hours in the night. Or it’s Kennedy! She likes to break out dance workout videos, usually after drinking or eating more than she wishes she had. Which is basically every day.

Everything is fine. I’m being dramatic.

I settle back into the couch, the blanket wrapped around me a little tighter now, and am about to unpause the movie, when I hear it again.

This time, my heart nearly stops altogether. Because I know…

It’s not coming from upstairs.

It’s not coming from next door.

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