Page 99 of Conviction

Who would’ve thought that my boring husband could be leading such a double life? Not me. Not anyone.

I come into the kitchenwearing Conner’s Shift T-shirt, the one I wore the first night I stayed here.

I’ve been out of the hospital for just over two weeks, and in that time we’ve only left the house once. We made a trip to Harley Street to meet the obstetrician Conner had arranged for me, and then to the solicitors to sign the final paperwork for the divorce that Marcus has finally agreed to.

I’m approximately nine weeks pregnant. Our baby was very probably conceived right here on this kitchen worktop, the first weekend we got together, which makes me feel kinda slutty but happy.

Conner has Ed Sheeran on shuffle over the loudspeakers, he sings along to ‘Photograph’ while boiling milk on the stove for me. I would normally just throw it in the microwave, but he’s banned me from using it. In fact, he’s gone as far as having it removed from the house.

He pours my milk into my favourite china mug and turns around, finally noticing me right at the moment ‘Thinking Out Loud’ starts to play.

He smiles his eighteen-year-old Conner smile and, as usual, I melt a little bit.

“You look beautiful,” he holds his hand out as he speaks.

“I look horrific, like someone threw up rhubarb and custard on my face and I had an allergic reaction that made my hair fall out.” My bruises have faded to pale yellow and a pinkish-purple in colour and are barely noticeable now, but my hair, my poor hair is growing back in tufts.

He spins me around, before tilting me backwards over his knee, then pulls me upright to start dancing around the kitchen with him.

“Well, I love the rhubarb and custard look. I might even taste it later too. Especially if you put your green shoes on for me.”

“You’re obsessed with those shoes.” He licks up my neck to my ear. “I’m obsessed with you,” he says right in it.

Eargasm?

Whispergasm?

I don’t know, but it feels good. So good.

We dance around the kitchen in silence for a bit, until he says in my ear, “Meebs?”

“What?”

“Marry me?”

“Of course.”

He pulls back and looks at me. “Are you serious?”

“As a brain bleed.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Well, neither is calling me a metal head.”

“Yea, now that’s funny.” He bends his knees, so we’re eye to eye. I’m not laughing.

“Oh, come on, metal head’s funny?”

“You called me bruised brain the other night too. I didn’t laugh then either.”

He throws his head back and gives a big belly laugh. “Bruised brain, now that one was hilarious.”

“D’ya wanna marry me or what?”

His face straightens. “Yeah, sorry. So is it still a yes?”

“Yeah, it’s still a yes.”