Page 9 of All the Forbidden Things

I nod while swallowing yet another ball of emotion that’s attempting to lodge in my throat. Fucking things. I feel like opening up my chest, or wherever it is the little fuckers reside and pull the lot of them out. I hate feeling like this.

“Please don’t ever get in the state we found you in earlier before asking for help. We’re your friends, we’re here for you, always. You need help, you ask for it, Max, else I’m gonna be pissed, you hear me?”

I slide my hands into the front pockets of my jogging bottoms, give a small laugh, and nod. “I promise.”

“I can’t believe she did this or what she said about Layla. I’m . . . I just have no words right now.”

I continue to nod slowly, agreeing with Mel, while Cal continues to strum “With You” by Carnage on my guitar.

“She’s yours, Max. I mean, just look at her for God’s sake. Even her eyes are already your colour and not blue like most newborns. And just look at all this dark hair . . .” Mel looks from Layla to me again. “She’s yours, please don’t ever doubt it.”

The intercom buzzes, interrupting the moment.

“That’ll be Aaron,” Cal states.

I buzz him in.

I’m holding a sleeping Laylaagainst me as Aaron swabs my mouth for the paternity test. He stayed for dinner, and I let Cal and Mel retell the events that have shaken my world over the past day. Aaron already has a courier waiting to rush our samples away. For a ridiculous amount of money, we should have the results back in under twenty-four hours.

Twenty-four-hours that I’ll spend going out of my fucking mind.

“Stress all you like about this, Max, it won’t change the results, and these results won’t mean shit to the courts, we’ll need to go throughthemfor that to happen, but at least you’ll know.”

I glare at Aaron as he pings off the latex gloves he wore to swab our mouths and tosses them into the bin.

“How many kids you got, Al?”

“Four.”

“How would you feel if you were told one of them wasn’t yours?”

“My job is to advise on whatyoushould do, not tell you whatIwould do.”

I breathe out through my nose and slide my gaze from him to my daughter sleeping in my arms. I bring her head of dark hair up towards my face and brush my lips over it, breathing her in. She smells like her and me. Would I know, would I be able to smell, sense if she wasn’t mine?

I move to the family room and lay her in the crib that we keep there for her daytime sleeps and head back to the table where my friends sit.

“What now?” I ask Aaron.

“Now, you tell me everything again, I’ll make notes to give to which ever divorce lawyer you choose to go with, and they’ll draw up a petition . . . But, under UK law, you need to be married for a year before you can file. I’ll get everything drawn up, but there’s nothing I can do until you’ve been married for a year.”

“A year?” I question.

“Afraid so.”

“Fuck.”

“What date did you get married? It must be coming up to a year.”

“December thirteenth. We got married as soon as we found out she was pregnant.”

“We have no choice but to wait till then . . . unless, of course . . .”

“What?”

Aaron, always the consummate professional, appears to lose his shit for a few short moments. Tilting his head to the side, his eyes dart all over my face. I hate the pity I see in his eyes, and I’m grateful when he closes them and draws in a deep breath. I hold onto my own until he slowly releases his. Reaching for my shoulder, he gives it a squeeze. His dark blue eyes open and meet mine. “If Layla’s not yours, we can apply for an annulment,” he tells me quietly.

I nod because, if I attempt to speak, I’ll probably vomit.