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A half hour passes, and I text again.

Laurel:How are you?

Trick:good. even better if u send a pic

Smiling because I can’t help it,I wonder what’s with him. That text is both like him and unlike him. It’s like him because when he wants something he gets it by relentless pursuit. But also unlike him since grownup Trick generally isn’t romantic, especially by text. He’s the one who once said everything is a game. Is he playing me?

I take a picture of my face with the side of my index finger pressed to my lips as if encouraging him to keep it a secret. Sending it, I hold my breath.

Trick:those eyes are one in a million

Staring at the phone for too long, I’m lost in the memory of staring into his eyes while lying in his bed. My body really misses his. I’d trade just about anything for another night in his apartment.

I’m in trouble and know it. I type the wordsyours too, but then delete them.

Laurel:have a good day

* * *

Laurel

Two weeks and five days after being in his place, I wake up with nausea and throw up for the first hour I’m awake. The feeling goes away until the next day when being sick lasts three hours. I buy a pregnancy test. But I don’t take it.

The next day, I wait all day for his text, feeling anxious and alone about what I assume is morning sickness. It’s hard not to reach out, but I hold back. He’ll tell me to take a test, but I’m having trouble facing it.

When he reaches out, he’s back to his wise-cracking ways, which in most ways is a relief. I’m glad to hear from him and glad he doesn’t mention a pregnancy test again. Maybe he assumes everything’s fine since I haven’t said differently?

Three weeks and two days after I stayed at his place, he doesn’t text all day. By five-thirty, I can’t stand the waiting and send a generic text greeting. No response.

Then about fifteen minutes later the doorbell rings, and he’s the one on the step. He wears a suit, which makes me wonder if he’s come from a wedding or a wake. Not that I care, because it’s so good to see him I almost can’t think straight.

Opening the door wider, I find he’s got a bouquet of expensive flowers, orchids and a yellow-green flowering vine that dangles from the spray. In his other hand he has takeout.

He wears a stern expression that reminds me of the night of the poker game and twists my belly into knots.

“Invite me in, Laurel.” By his expression and tone, he doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood.

“Hey,” I say softly. “What are you doing here?”

Instead of answering, he raises the packages with an air of impatience.

I’ve been thinking about him all day, but inexplicably because I’m nervous and upset I say, “I wish you’d texted. It’s not the best time.”

“Why’s that?”

Ignoring my presence in the doorway, he opens the screen door with the bouquet hand and steps forward, forcing me to step back so he can come in.

Once he’s inside he sets the stuff on the coffee table and closes the door. When he reaches inside his suit coat, I see a gun holster. Despite knowing he always carries a gun, it startles me and I stiffen.

“When did you take the test? Could it have been too soon?” From his pocket, he produces a pregnancy test.

Frowning, I turn, not ready to have the conversation.

From behind me, his hand catches my arm and stops me. The grip’s not rough, but it’s firm. “I asked a question, Laurel.”

“If I’m pregnant, it’s my baby and my problem,” I blurt, not turning to face him. “I’ll take the test when I’m ready.”

His silence causes me to glance over my shoulder.