Page 103 of Curvy Cabin Fever
Later, we migrate to the couch, all four of us huddled beneath a single oversized blanket that Morgan had insisted was “big enough for the whole damn state of Colorado.” Damien reads quietly from his tablet, the blue glow illuminating his sharp features. Rhett stretches out beside me, his head resting in my lap, eyes closed in contentment as my fingers absently stroke through his hair. Morgan sits beside Rhett, humming a melody I don’t recognize but find strangely comforting.
Time seems to lose all meaning in these moments. The clock on the mantel ticks steadily onward, but none of us pay it any mind. There’s no urgency, no schedule to keep, no world outside this cabin demanding our attention.
This, I realize with sudden clarity, is what love looks like. Not the frantic passion of new romance, not the honeymoon period, but this—this quiet certainty, this shared space, this belonging.
We don’t discuss the future that night. There’s no need for declarations or promises or plans. The decision has already been made, not in a single dramatic moment, but in a thousand smallchoices that led us here—to this cabin, to each other, to a life we’re building together.
The four of us.
Rhett’s breathing evening out as he drifts toward sleep in my lap. Damien’s watchful presence beside me. Morgan’s humming.
We’ve already chosen our future.
Together.
37
ARIA
THREE MONTHS LATER
Rhett makes a pot one morning—something herbal from the little shop in town—and the scent hits me wrong. My stomach flips before I even taste it.
I set the mug down quietly, trying not to draw attention. But Morgan’s eyes flick to me across the table, his perception always sharper than I expect.
“You okay, sugar?” he asks, pausing with his own mug halfway to his lips.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a smile I hope looks convincing.
And I mostly am. But I’m tired and a little dizzy. My breasts have been tender for days, but it’s probably just the altitude. Or the cold.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
By the third morning, I can’t ignore it anymore.
My jeans don’t button comfortably despite all our hiking. The smell of bacon—Morgan’s specialty that normally makes my mouth water—sends me fleeing to the porch for fresh air. Andwhen I flip through my planner to mark a deadline, I realize I haven’t had my period in a long time.
My whole body goes still as the possibility washes through me.
Could I be pregnant?
Oh, my fucking god.
I don’t tell them right away. Instead, I spend the day drifting between tasks, pretending I’m just tired, just distracted. But the thought won’t leave me; it sits in my belly, impossible to ignore.
What if I am? Only one way to find out.
The next morning, I announce I’m walking into town alone.
Damien offers to come with me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly at my sudden need for solitude.
“I want to see Trish at the café,” I tell him—not entirely a lie since Idoplan to stop there after. He watches me with that penetrating gaze that suggests he knows there’s more, but he lets me go without pressing. “Women’s things.”
“Take the heavier coat,” is all he says, helping me into it with gentle hands.
At the pharmacy, I grab a bottle of shampoo we don’t need, some toothpaste though we have plenty, and—after glancing around to ensure no familiar faces are watching—one small pink box that I quickly tuck beneath the other items.
The cashier barely looks up from her phone as she rings me up.
