Page 41 of Mortify

Together.

The word settles over me like a blanket.

Not alone anymore.

Not facing this terrifying future by myself.

"I should probably know things about you too," I realize. "If we're together."

"Ask me anything."

"Your full name?"

"Regnor Walsh. No middle name—my mom couldn't afford extra letters." The joke falls flat, tinged with old pain.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-three. And before you ask, yes, I know that's a gap between us."

"I wasn't going to?—"

"Everyone else will." He shrugs. "Let them talk. Won't be the worst thing they say about us."

He's right. The age gap will be the least of our problems once this gets out.

"Favorite color?"

That surprises a laugh from him. "Really? We're doing twenty questions?"

"If we're supposedly together, I should know these things."

"Blue," he says after a moment. "Dark blue, like the ocean at night. You?"

"Green." I touch my belly again. "Like sage."

Like my eyes, I don't say. But from the way he looks at me, he knows.

We spend the next hour trading information.

His favorite food is steak, rare, while mine is Thai, the spicier the better.

Little details that couples should know, that we'll need to sell this story.

"You should rest," he says eventually, studying my face. "When's the last time you actually slept?"

I try to remember.

Between the stress and the morning sickness, and the fear, real sleep has been elusive. "I don't know. Tried to last night, but I kept waking up."

"Then go lay down. I'll be here."

"You don't have to stay?—"

"Yes, I do." His voice is firm. "We're selling this, remember? Besides, you need to get used to me being around. To feeling safe enough to sleep."

The word 'safe' makes my chest tight.

When's the last time I felt safe enough to truly rest?

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