Page 63 of Desperate Games

It’s mine. I recognize it.

Someone propped it up and opened it, leaving it face up on the ottoman against the wall.

From here, I can see it all there.

Clothes. Shoes. My favorite pajamas. My moisturizer. Even my sleep mask. Beside it? My camera bag.

Remy must’ve sent someone to my place.

Someone just let themselves in. Brought my stuff here like it was nothing.

I should probably ask him about it. I mean, can you say invasion of privacy?

But my brain is short-circuiting. I turn back to the sink and continue to brush.

The facts just don’t line up.

Nothing about this feels real.

I got married.

I’m having a baby.

I’m staying here, in his house.

There’s a kid sleeping down the hall who just gave me kisses and hugs before bedtime and shared a chicken nugget with me before spilling an entire cup of whole milk on my pants.

Not that I cared about that.

Little cutie.

My stomach flips.

Not morning or nighttime sickness. Just—panic.

Complete, blinding, slow-motion what the actual fuck am I doing panic.

I should leave.

I should run.

I should sleep on the couch or maybe just vanish in the night, crawl into a rideshare and go beg one of my cousins to let me crash in their guest room.

But instead?

I stand here brushing my teeth in his bathroom, wondering if he’ll even care if I vanish.

And worse?

Wondering why my entire nervous system still zings to attention when I see him. When I think about him.

Why does my body react to him like he’s a goddamn drug?

My body responds to Remy like it doesn’t know what my brain knows—like it never got the memo that he’s probably furious with me.

That I ruined whatever this could’ve been.

That I broke the man before I even tried to love him.