After We Fell (87 page)

I blink up at his face again, taking in the way his brows have lowered, the way his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, and the way his eyes are watching me. He hits the back of my throat repeatedly, and I notice the way the muscles along his stomach are expanding and tightening, signaling what is next.

As if he can read my mind, he groans. “Fuck, I'm going to come.” His movements pick up and he's being more forceful now. I squeeze my thighs to relieve some of the pressure and suck harder. I'm surprised when he withdraws from my mouth and comes across my bare chest. With another moan of my name,
he leans forward in exhaustion, his forehead pressed against the headboard. I wait patiently for him to catch his breath and lower his body to sit next to me.

His hand reaches over, and to my horror he slowly rubs his hand across the mess he made on my skin. He watches it, transfixed for a moment before meeting my eyes.

“All mine.” He grins cheekily, pressing a soft kiss to my open mouth.

“I—” I stare down at my sticky chest.

“You like it.” He smiles, and I don't deny it. “It looks good on you.” I can tell by the way his eyes are focused on the shining skin that he really does think that.

“You're filthy” is all I can think to say.

“Yeah? And so are you.” He nods to my chest and grabs me by the hips to yank me off of the bed.

I squeal, and he covers my mouth with one hand. “Shh, we don't want an audience while I'm fucking you over the desk, now, do we?”

T
he smell of coffee fills my nostrils, and I reach for Tessa, knowing she's close by. When my search comes up empty, I open my eyes to find two cups of coffee resting on the dresser and Tessa packing her bag.

“What time is it?” I ask her, hoping she says it's still early.

“Nearly noon,” she says instead.

Fuck, I've slept through half the damn day.

“I've already packed everything and had breakfast. Lunch will be ready soon,” she tells me with a smile. She's already showered and gotten herself dressed. She's wearing those damn jeans again, the tight pair.

I force myself out of bed and try to keep myself from lashing out at her for not waking me earlier. “Cool,” I respond and reach for my pants from the floor . . . only they aren't on the floor anymore.

“Here.” Tessa hands me the jeans, folded, of course. “Are you okay?” She must sense my hostility.

“I'm fine.”

“Hardin,” she presses. I knew she fucking would.

“I'm okay; the weekend just went too fast, that's all.”

Her smile is enough to melt the ice that had formed around my mood. “It really has,” she agrees.

I hate this living-separate shit. I hate it so fucking much.

“We only have to get through until Thursday,” she says, trying to make the distance seem less . . . distant.

“What did Karen make for lunch?” I change the subject. “Nothing involving maple syrup, I hope.”

She laughs. “No, no syrup.”

Landon is brooding at the table when we walk into the dining room at the same time as Karen, who's carrying a tray of sandwiches. Tessa sits down next to Landon, and I watch as she asks him if he's all right.

“I'm okay, just feeling a little off,” he says.

I never thought I'd see the day he'd lie to
her
.

“Are you sure, because you've been acting so—”

“Tessa . . .” He reaches up, and I swear, if he puts his hand on hers . . . “I'm fine.” He smiles, lowering his hand from the table. I quickly reach for her hand and them on my lap, covered with my own.

The boring table chat fades in and out. I don't participate, and all too soon it's time for me to drive Tessa back to Seattle. I'm once again reminded of what a fucking idiot I am for not moving there in the first place.

“I'll see you again before you leave, right?” Tessa's eyes water as Landon hugs her goodbye. I look away.

“Yeah, of course. Maybe I'll come up there to visit you once you're back from your visit to the queen?” he quips, making her smile. I appreciate his effort, especially since I'm going to be the one she loses her shit on when she finds out that him and Dakota broke up and I kept it from her.

Ten minutes later, I'm practically dragging Tessa's ass out of the house. Karen is much more upset than you would expect any reasonable person to be, and she tells Tessa that she loves her, which is pretty fucking weird.

“Does it make me a horrible person that I feel more comfortable
around your family than my own?” Tessa asks me after fifteen minutes of driving in silence.

“Yes.”

She glares at me, making me roll my eyes at her pretend anger. “Both of our families are fucked up,” I say, and she nods, returning to her silence.

The closer my car gets to Seattle, the stronger the current of anxiety that's flowing through my chest. I don't want to spend the entire week away from her. Four days away from Tessa is a fucking lifetime.

The moment I get back, I'm heading straight to the gym.

O
n Monday morning I arrive for my appointment half an hour early and take a seat in one of the mass-produced, blue-checkered chairs in the waiting room, which, I can't help but notice, is nearly full, crying children and coughing women crowding the space. I try to keep myself occupied by flipping through a magazine, but the only one available is a parenting journal, full of diaper ads and “revolutionary” breast-feeding tips.

“Young? Theresa Young?” An elderly woman calls my name as she looks up from a clipboard. I stand quickly, sidestepping a toddler who's scooting around on the floor with a toy truck in his hand. The truck rolls over my shoe, and he giggles. I smile down at him, earning an adorable grin in return.

“How far along are you?” a woman, the boy's mother, I assume, asks. Her eyes dart to my stomach, and I instinctively place my hand on it.

An uncomfortable laugh escapes. “Oh! I'm not . . .”

“I'm sorry!” She flushes. “I just assumed, you don't look it . . . I just thought . . .” The fact that she's as uncomfortable as I am makes me feel lighter. Asking a woman how far along she is never ends well, especially when she isn't pregnant. The woman laughs. “Well, now you know for future reference when you're a mother yourself . . . the filter disappears!”

I don't allow my mind to go there; I don't have time to ponder
the future and the fact that if I want a life with Hardin, I'll never be a mother. I'll never have an adorable toddler running a toy truck over my shoes or climbing onto my lap. I turn back to look at him one last time.

I smile politely and make my way to the nurse, who immediately hands me a small cup and instructs me to go to the restroom down the hall to complete the pregnancy test. Despite my period, I'm battling nerves at the idea. Hardin and I have been so careless lately, and the last thing we need is an unplanned pregnancy. It would push him over the edge. It could completely upend everything I want to do with my life, to have a baby now.

When I hand the full cup back to the nurse, she guides me into an empty room and wraps a blood-pressure cuff around my arm. “Uncross your legs, dear,” she sweetly instructs, and I do as I'm told. After taking my temperature, the woman disappears, and a few minutes later I hear a knock on the door, and a distinguished-looking middle-aged man with mostly gray hair enters. He removes a pair of thick glasses and reaches a hand out to me.

“Dr. West. It's nice to meet you, Theresa,” he introduces himself amiably. I was hoping for a female doctor, but he seems nice enough. I do wish he was less attractive, though; it would make things less awkward for me during this already uncomfortable experience.

Dr. West asks a lot of questions, most of which are absolutely horrifying. I have to tell him about Hardin and me having unprotected sex—on more than one occasion—during which I force myself to maintain eye contact with him. Halfway through the embarrassing ordeal, the nurse returns and places a piece of paper on top of the desk. Dr. West glances at it, and I hold my breath until he speaks.

He gives me a warm smile. “Well, you're not pregnant, so now we can begin.”

And I let out the deep breath I didn't realize I was even holding.

He reels off many options, some of which I've never even heard of, before we settle on the shot.

“Before I give you the shot, I'll need to do a brief pelvic exam; is that okay?”

I nod and swallow my nervousness. I don't know why I'm so uncomfortable; he's only a doctor, and I'm an adult. I should have scheduled this appointment for after my period. I didn't think about the actual exam when I called for the appointment. I only wanted Hardin off my back.

“ALMOST FINISHED,”
Dr. West announces. The exam is proving to be quick and not nearly as awkward as I assumed it would be, which is a blessing.

He pops up, a deep line forming across his forehead. “Have you had a pelvic exam before?”

“No, I don't think so,” I answer quietly. I know I haven't, but the last part of my response was a nervous add-on. My eyes turn to the screen in front of him, and he moves the probe around the bottom of my belly, across my pelvis.

“Hmm,” he says to himself. My unease grows—was the test wrong, and there really
is
a baby in there after all? I begin to panic. I'm too young, and I haven't finished college, and Hardin and I are in such an in-between place and—

“I'm a little concerned about the size of your cervix,” he finally says. “It's nothing to worry about at the moment, but I'd like to see you again to do further testing.”

“ ‘Nothing to worry about'?” My mouth is dry, and my stomach is in knots. My palms start sweating. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing as of now . . . I can't be sure,” he says—in a very unconvincing tone.

I pull myself up, pushing the gown back down. “What
could
it mean?”

“Well . . .” Dr. West pushes his thick glasses back up his nose. “Worst case would be infertility, but without further testing, there's no way to know just from this exam. I don't see any cysts, and that's a really good sign.” He gestures to the screen.

My heart drops onto the cold tile floor. “What . . . what are the chances?” I can't hear my own voice or thoughts.

“I can't say. This isn't a diagnosis, Miss Young. What I mentioned is the worst-case scenario; please don't fret over it until we get some testing done. I want to go ahead with your shot today, get some blood drawn for some tests, and schedule a follow-up.” After a moment he adds, “Okay?”

I nod, unable to speak. I just heard him say it wasn't a diagnosis, but it sure feels like one. I felt the dreadful, empty flutter of my nerves crawling up my spine at the first mention of a problem. Only the hammering of my heart can be heard in the quiet room. I'm sulking, and I know it, but I don't care.

“This happens all the time; don't trouble yourself over it. We'll clear it up; it's nothing, I'm sure,” he says rather stiffly, and then exits the room, leaving me to deal with the cruel, sharp edges of the situation on my own. He isn't sure, nothing is certain; he seems fairly blasé about it—so why can't I shake the anxiety gnawing at me?

I'm given the birth-control shot by the nurse, who has suddenly turned into a mother hen, talking about her grandchildren and their love of her homemade cookies. I stay quiet mostly, only speaking enough to be polite. I feel nauseous.

She gives me a thorough briefing about my new contraceptive, going over the pros and cons that I've already heard from Dr. West. I'm thrilled to not have to deal with a period anymore, slightly concerned over the weight gain, but figure it's an even trade.

She tells me that since I'm on my period now, the shot will be effective immediately, but to wait three days to have unprotected
sex, just to be safe. Then she reminds me that this won't protect me from STDs, only pregnancy.

After scheduling the dreaded follow-up appointment, I head straight downtown to take my passport photo and finalize the paperwork. Of course, it has already been paid for by Mr. Vance. I cringe at the amount of money everyone around me seems to have no problem spending on me.

Every single person I pass on the street seems to be pregnant or carrying a child in their arms. I shouldn't have pressed the doctor for information; now I'm going to be paranoid until my follow-up, which of course isn't for another three weeks. Three weeks to drive myself mad, three weeks to obsess over the chance that I might not be able to get pregnant. I don't know why the idea is so painful; I thought I had somewhat come to terms with the idea of not having children. I can't mention this to Hardin yet, not until I know for sure. Not that it will make a difference to his plans anyway.

I text Hardin when I get back to my car, telling him that my appointment went well, and head back to Christian and Kimberly's house. By the time I arrive, I've convinced myself that I'll spend the week avoiding the topic. There's no reason to worry myself when Dr. West assured me that nothing was definite at this point. The hollowness in my chest says otherwise, but I have to ignore it and move on for now. I'm going to England. For the first time in my life, I'm going to be traveling outside of the state of Washington, and I couldn't be more excited. Nervous, but excited.

T
essa looks like she could pass out any minute. She's shoved an ink pen between her teeth as she looks over her checklist again. Apparently traveling across the globe kicks her neurotic tendencies into high gear.