Page 225 of This Woman Forever

What?

I feel something inside lift as I look back at her. Again, so calm. Too calm for a woman who’s just found out her husband is fathering a child with another woman.

“I’m not,” Coral says, indicating the picture. “You have the proof there.”

“Yes, I do.” Ava shows her the picture. Wait. I frown. That’s my picture. It’s tatty, the edges worn from me holding it so much. “This is a six-week scan picture,” Ava says.

“No, it’s a four-month scan picture.”

“This isn’t your baby, Coral.”

“Whose is it then?”

Oh my God, is what I think’s happening actually happening? Coral doesn’t know Ava’s expecting?

Ava gazes down at the scan picture. My scan picture. My scan picture with my babies on it. “This is my baby,” Ava muses, almost wistful. “And Jesse’s.”

“What?” Coral asks, unsure.

“Well, I say baby,” she goes on. “What I actually meant was babies. You see, we’re having twins, and I know you’re trying to pull a fast one because this really is a six-week scan picture. And there are two peanuts here, smaller than your one blob, I know, but I can get a feel for it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s motherly instinct.” She smiles, while I stare at her, mouth agape. “Is that all?” she asks.

I’m speechless, wanting to grab the pictures and compare them. Or maybe I’ll just take her word for it. Is she right? Has Coral got herself pregnant and is trying to pass it off as mine?

“Unless you can miraculously produce this missing strip that’ll confirm your dates,” Ava says, pointing at the photo. “I think we’re done.” The picture gets tossed on the floor at Coral’s feet. “Now fuck off and go find the real father of your spawn.”

I flinch on Coral’s behalf, certain I’m not stepping in right now. Jesus, Ava looks on the verge of exploding, although, surprisingly, she’s keeping control of it.

“Are you leaving?” she asks when Coral doesn’t budge. “Or do I have to drag you out?”

Now, I absolutely will step in then. But I don’t need to. Coral grabs her scan picture and scuttles out quietly, and Ava makes a meal of slamming the door, her body heaving. Adrenaline? Fuck, I don’t even know what to say as she turns toward me. She looks so mad. Fuck me, can I put this woman through any more stress?

“Av—”

She walks past me without a word, leaving me standing by the door, feeling lost and ashamed. Dropping my head back, I curse quietly to the heavens. I hate that there was even room for doubt. Fuck. Exhausted, I perch on the arm of the couch, shaking my head in disbelief. Nothing should surprise me anymore, and yet here I am, constantly fucking surprised.

“You okay, boy?” Cathy asks quietly from the kitchen entrance.

“Had better mornings, Cathy,” I say, my body heavy.

“Coffee?”

Alcohol.

I shake the fleeting thought away, struggling to my feet. “No, thanks. I’ve got some serious sucking up to do.” I trudge off, having to use the handrail to help me up the stairs, hearing the shower. She’s under the spray washing her hair when I make it to the bathroom, and I hover at the door, anxious. I can’t leave her on bad terms today. I already know it’s going to be stressful, waiting on information on who the fuck stole my car, not to mention the fact that it’s been confirmed Van Der Haus is still sniffing around my wife, waiting for me to fuck it all up so he can sweep on in and sweep her off her feet. I’m probably being dramatic—she’ll never fall into that Danish arsehole’s arms. But still. I’m feeling uncertain, and particularly shitty for ruining her day before it’s gotten started.

I don’t usually need any courage or push to try and improve my wife’s mood with a potent, underhanded hit of her godly husband, but today feels different. Ava seems... tired.

Of me?

Of our life?

Fuck, Paradise feels like eons ago. Pushing my boxers down, I step out of them and into the stall behind her, seeing her shoulder blades pull in, a sign that she knows I’m close. Defensive? Preparing to brush me off? I take the sponge off the shelf and wet it, moving in and starting to wash her. She pulls away immediately, and my heart sinks in disappointment.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Oh God, the fatal words. I’ve really fucking done it this time. God damn me. Pouting, I try one more time to bring her around, slipping my hand onto her stomach. Skin on skin. It’s what I’ve always depended on.

"I said I’m not in the mood.” She dips out of the shower, escaping me, and this time I know it’s not because she’s worried she’ll cave in to my form of making friends.

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