Page 142 of Marry Lies
When I’m done peeing on the stick, I place it on the counter and pull my pants up.
“Now what?” he asks, eyes flicking between me and the test.
I shrug. “I reckon we wait a couple of minutes.” My hands come to the hard, muscled plane of his chest. “Care to get out of these sopping wet clothes, darling?” I unbutton his shirt.
When I look up at him, he’s watching me with tenderness. And maybe a bit of awe.
“What?” I whisper, my hands pausing on the third button.
“I hope it’s positive,” he replies, smiling.
I furrow my brows. “When we hadthe talklast month, I had to practically beg you for kids.”
“I changed my mind,” he murmurs, reaching up and tucking a curl behind my ear. “I want kidswith you.And I want themnow.”
I shove against his chest playfully. “Well, personally, I’d prefer to wait until after we’re married.”
“Wearemarried, butterfly.”
“You know what I mean. We’ve done things so out of order—”
“So?” His eyes are glittering with happiness. “Who fucking cares?”
“Miles…” My voice quivers.
“What does the test say, Estelle?” he asks, nodding his head toward the counter.
I pull away from him and walk over, picking the white stick up.
And then I proceed to throw it across the bathroom.
“No,” I say quickly, covering my mouth. “Give me another one. That one’s faulty.”
Miles snatches the test up and stares at it for a few seconds. My hands start to shake, and my heart pounds inside of my chest.
“Two lines is good, right?” he asks, looking at me with that same damn reverent expression that makes my heart feel as if it’s going to crack in half.
I glare at him. “Two lines means I’m bloody well knocked up, Miles! Fifteen months before our wedding! One week before the launch of VeRue, and, andfuckthis is not how it was supposed to happen, andshitewe have Taylor Swift tickets for next summer, and I can’t bring a baby, andoh godwhat’s thepointof birth control if it’s just going to fail when you need it to succeed—”
Miles is right in front of me now, and he looks so, so happy. I’m panting, chest rising and falling, a million thoughts racing through my mind as panic begins to settle deep in my chest. My stomach roils with nerves, twisting and lurching. Reaching up, Miles grips my chin between his thumb and index finger. It feels nice, despite my weak knees and shaking legs.
“Estelle, calm down—”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
And then I proceed to chunder all over his signature Dior loafers.
* * *
Miles
A couple of hours later, once I’ve gotten Estelle calm enough to sleep, I climb out of our bed and walk to the window. It’s nearly three in the morning, and I think of the last time I was restless at three in the morning in Paris. Glancing at Estelle, who is curled up in a fetal position, white-blonde curls wild around her face, I can’t help but feel a tug of emotion deep inside of me. How captivating she was that night in the fountain. How much I grew to love her.Fuck,I love her so much, and I can’t fucking wait to have babies with her.
I never considered having children of my own. Not after experiencing the shit show of Charles Ravage. But with Estelle, I can’t imaginenotsharing the love I have for her. I can’t imaginenotexperiencing this with her.
And yes, we’re doing things all out of order, but that’s okay.
In a way…having a baby at our wedding somehow feels perfect. Like it was always meant to be.
