Page 7 of Captured Immune

“Because Ari would never do that.”

That’s what I thought too—until she showed me those two lines on a pee stick. “Well, she did.”

“How do you know? Did she tell you?”

“No. I know because—” I choke up. “She’s... She’s pregnant.”

Liz gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. “No. Maybe the test was wrong.” She’s going through the denial phase. That was me for the first fifteen minutes after I saw those goddamn pregnancy brochures.

I was cleaning up my house when I accidentally dropped Arella’s purse and all her stuff spilled out. As I bent to pick it up, the wordsHaving a Healthy Pregnancycaught my attention. I almost fell over.

“She took four store-bought tests and a test at the doctor’s office. They all came out positive.” I lift a finger. “Which, by the way, does not mean she’s positivelynot pregnant.”

Liz screws her face up. “Hold on. You thoughtpositiveon a pregnancy test meant positivelynotpregnant?”

“Well, I fuckin’ hoped.”

“You know, for a smart man, you’re kind of an idiot.”

I toss my hands into the air, letting them fall to my thighs. “Thanks for the pep talk, Liz. Really made me feelloadsbetter. Same time tomorrow?”

Her hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m just... trying to process all this. If Ari is pregnant, that means she really did sleep with someone else.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to fucking tell you.”

Liz slumps back, huffing out a breath. “Damn. That changes everything.”

* * *

Sunday night usedto beournight. It’s the evening I usually have off, and I’d spend those hours just being with Arella. Most of the time, we’d just talk until she fell asleep. Sometimes we’d watch movies or play card games or take walks around my neighborhood.

Sundays are special to me. We had our first date on a Sunday. I took her to my favorite pasta place in Long Beach, where I made her laugh so hard, she wheezed and slapped her knee over and over.

A couple of Sundays later, she taught me how to bake snickerdoodle cookies in my kitchen. That night ended with us throwing flour at each other and sharing our first kiss.

Then there was that one Sunday when we went stargazing at herthinking spot, a secluded oak tree at the top of a woodsy hill. There, she explained to me what love is.

“When you love someone, you put their happiness before your own.”

Later that night, I told her what really happened to my parents, and she comforted me with a simple touch of her hand to my face.

On a Sunday after that, we made love for the first time, right under that tree. It was the most magical and sensual experience I’ve ever had.

As I flop onto my still-bare mattress, I mope over the idea that this could be the first of many Sundays I spend alone.

On Monday, everything reminds me of her. Little things like waking up to her side of the bed empty, or walking into the kitchen, where she’s not in my T-shirt, pouring herself a glass of apple juice. Or stepping into my shower without a naked beauty smiling back at me.

My shower water ran cold five minutes ago. My body’s natural equilibrium is working hard to warm me because I don’t care to get out. There’s nothing waiting for me beyond these tile walls—the ones that I’m pounding my head against because I’m trying to get her out of my mind.

When I finally gather enough willpower to step out, the mirror is foggy. In the middle of the glass, I swipe a towel in a circle to reveal my face.Ew.Bloodshot pupils. Dark eyebags. Facial hair that hasn’t been trimmed in who knows how long. I look like a homeless bum.

With a towel around my waist, I drag my feet into my walk-in closet. All her clothes are still hanging up on her side. I debate shoving it all into a box and driving it back to her. It’d be an excuse to see her, but returning her things means she won’t be coming back. I’m not ready to admit that yet.

On Tuesday, I don’t do anything productive all day. Unless lugging my feet around my empty house and finding things to throw fireballs at counts as productive.

Around noon on Wednesday, Liz FaceTimes me. I almost don’t answer, but if I don’t, she’ll show up here, and that would be worse.

“Hey,” I mumble when her face appears on my screen. I take a seat at my kitchen counter.

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