EPILOGUE
TATE
One Year Later…
I pat the bed, looking for Sariah in my sleep-induced fog. It’s Sunday. We always sleep in on Sunday. Then we wake up, make love, take a shower, and go to brunch. It’s my favorite day of the week.
Peeling my eyes open, I take note that she’s not only not in bed, but her side of the bed is cold. “Sariah?”
Moaning comes from the bathroom.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes and toss the sheets off me, shuffling my way into the bathroom. The door to the toilet is slightly ajar, so I lean my hip against the vanity and cross my arms over my chest. “Sariah?”
“I’m dying,” she moans, her voice barely over a whisper.
“I’m coming in.”
I stick my head in the door to find her sitting on the floor, her head resting on her arm draped over the toilet seat. “What’s going on? Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“How’s your stomach today?”
Outside of needing to take a piss, I feel fine. I shake my head. “Are you thinking you have food poisoning?”
“Either that or I’m pregnant.”
Excitement shoots through me. We aren’t married. We aren’t even engaged yet—although I bought the ring over a month ago—so we haven’t talked a lot about starting a family, even though both of us want children, eventually. I figured we’d start trying in a couple of years, so this is a surprise.
“Are you serious?”
She lifts her head; her face a mask of misery. “I have an ironclad stomach. I don’t throw up, ever.”
Crouching down beside her, I smooth her sweaty hair from her face. “What do you need?”
“A shower and a pregnancy test.”
“Okay.” I lift her into my arms and carry her to the shower, sitting her down on the built-in bench. Pulling her nightshirt off, I shuck off my shorts and start the water, letting the cold spray hit my back for the five-seconds it takes to warm up. I tense and she laughs, looking up at me with tired eyes.
“How long have you been up?”
“I don’t know, maybe an hour.”
“Oh, sugar. I’m so sorry.” I turn the knob, diverting the water from the handheld to the overhead rain shower. Grabbing the shampoo, I stand between her splayed knees and lather up her hair as she leans against me with her arms wrapped around my thighs.
For several seconds, we sit in silence as I massage her scalp, a million thoughts running through my brain. Running through her brain too, I’m sure. Sariah is a thinker. She’s a planner. She doesn’t always handle her carefully laid plans being blown to shit well.
“What are we going to do if I am pregnant?”
“You want kids, don’t you?”
“Yes, someday.”
“You want kids with me, right?”
She tilts her head back and smiles. “Of course, I do. I love you.”
I grab the handheld and rinse her hair clean. “I love you, too, and so, if you are pregnant, I guess we’re having a baby.”
“But we have the wedding this fall and I really wanted to wear a bikini on the beach.”
I snort, leaning down to put my face in front of hers. “Then wear a bikini. Bikini-clad baby bumps are fucking sexy.”
She laughs and playfully slaps my chest. “Would you be serious?”
“I am.” I grab the soap and lather up my body before kneeling down and lathering up her thighs, her soft belly, and full breasts. Now that I’m thinking about it, she mentioned how sensitive her breasts were a couple of weeks ago, and they seem heavier, if that’s possible. “How late are you?”
She leans her head back as I gently massage her breasts, her legs widening for me without thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe a few weeks.”
“How do you feel right now?”
“Better.” She opens her eyes. “And hungry.”
“Perfect. Let’s rinse off, get dressed, and go to brunch. We’ll buy a couple of tests on the way home.”
* * *