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Maybe I’m just jumping to conclusions. Maybe there’s a perfectly solid explanation as to why she has an open fucking box of pregnancy tests on her fucking counter.
I suck in a few deep breaths as I’m at the point where I either have to turn left to go home or right to go to the bar.
I have her shit in my car. It’s not like I can go drink and then drive home.
I turn left. I force myself to calm down.
It’s not another secret or lie until she admits it is.
Then I can overreact.
I pull into the driveway and haul the first two suitcases inside.
She’s still making her truffles.
I head for the pantry, twist the cap on the Hendricks, and take a few swigs.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
She knows me so well.
I take another swig at the thought.
“Why is there a box of pregnancy tests on your bathroom counter?” I demand.
She freezes, and her face turns white.
That’s all I need to know to confirm the fact that she’s been keeping something from me.
She sets down the ball of chocolate she’s forming, and she presses her palms onto the countertop. “Kelly’s pregnant. She gave me the box after she used a test.”
Kelly’s pregnant? Kelly?
“Jesus. Is it Austin’s?”
She nods slowly.
It’s a simple enough explanation, I suppose.
But that box of tests wasn’t in Kelly’s bathroom. It was in Ava’s.
Maybe every woman keeps a box of pregnancy tests on their bathroom counter.
Except…
I don’t think they do.
And her face turned white. She froze as if she was caught.
There’s more to this story, and I’m going to dig until I get to the bottom of it.
“But why would you need the box?” I ask, my voice a bit more menacing than I mean for it to be.
She clears her throat. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Do you have something to confess?” I counter.
She sighs. “My period is late, okay?”
