Page 69 of Wish You Would

For the last few weeks, Briar and I have been spending all our free time together at home. We binge episodes ofNew Girl, play board games, cook together. Ever since she passed her first trimester, Briar has had more energy and her nausea has faded. She’s back to her firecracker self, funny and giving me shit at every opportunity. She hasn’t, however, been seeing her friends. I’d like to think she just really loves my company, but I’m pretty sure she’s been hiding out at home because she’s not ready to tell everyone that she’s pregnant. At this point, I’m just hoping she’s ready to tell them before she gives birth.

Briar needs her friends, and although the time we’ve been spending together has been important in getting to know each other, I have a feeling that a part of her is lonely.To be honest, I’ve liked having her all to myself, but I know how much her friends mean to her.

I’ve let her set the pace, I’ve given her time, but eventually that time is going to run out.

After breakfast, a meal that Briar miraculously now enjoys ever since she passed the 12-week mark with Slugger, I tell Briar to relax on the couch with one of her books while I tackle the kitchen cleanup. When I walk into the living room to find her, her head is tilted back against a cushion, her feet propped on the coffee table.

“I have something for you,” I say, dropping onto the couch next to her.

I hand her an envelope and wait as she hesitantly opens it and pulls out the gift card I got her for a spa here in Reed Point. She spent weeks feeling sick to her stomach and tired, working long days through it all, and then coming home and making dinner—even though I insisted she didn’t have to. I bought her the gift card because I thought she’d appreciate being pampered.

And I want her to know that I appreciate her.

“What is this?”

“I thought you could spend a few hours at the spa. Get your feet rubbed, or a massage. Anything you want, Briar.”

“Holden, this is so thoughtful of you. I don’t know what to say.”

“I give terrible massages, and I know how much you like them. You deserve to relax. You’re cooking our baby.”

Tears instantly spring to her eyes, which I should be used to by now. Briar cries at everything these days: commercials, her books, cats on the internet, every time I talk about Slugger. But a swirl of emotion barrels through me anyways seeing her cry.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles, wiping her eyes. “I don’t knowwhy I’m crying. This little bean seems to have turned me into a crier. Thank you, Holden. I can’t wait to use this.”

“Just make sure the masseuse is a woman, Bee.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why does it matter?”

“If another man touches you, it will be a problem.”

Her mouth falls open, jaw practically hitting the floor. “Why? You’re jealous of another man touching me?”

“Is that even a question? It’s just a matter of time before I make you officially mine.”

My back stiffens, bracing for the impact of my admission. I’m not sure exactly what we are. More than friends, but beyond that I don’t know. I have the sense that if I asked her to be my girlfriend, she’d say yes. Jesus. That sounds archaic. Do adults in their late 20s even ask each other out anymore?

I’m pleasantly surprised when she says, “I don’t blame you, Holden. I wouldn’t like anyone’s hands on you either.”

“It’s that simple,” I respond, when what I really should do is lift her up onto this counter and make a meal out of her. “I don’t like others touching what is mine.”

Her lips part but no words come out. Her eyes find mine, and I meet her stare. Silence stretches between us for a moment before she finally looks away.

“Well, thanks again, really,” Briar says hoarsely, picking up the envelope and then hurrying out of the kitchen, her blonde ponytail swaying. I’m used to this by now with her. I seem to gain an inch before I’m stopped in my tracks. Luckily, I’ve never been one to give up on something that I want.

My intense need to have Briar again has been building over the last few months. Now all that is left of my resolve is rubble.

FollowingBriar through the door of Buttercup Bakery, I spot Sierra behind the counter as soon as we walk inside. She waves at us as we take a seat at a corner table, her attention on a little girl at the counter who is choosing from the selection of colorful, frosted cupcakes.

Briar tugs the hem of her shirt down. “This feels risky.”

I scooch my chair closer to hers. “What does?” I ask, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Do you think the cupcakes are laced with something?”

She swats my arm, narrowing her eyes at me. “Sierra is here, and she might notice the bump.”

“And?”

She huffs. “And… then she’ll know that I’m pregnant.”

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