3: 3
When I got home, my phone buzzed.
Ella had sent a screenshot. I opened it.
The timestamp was from the day of my friend's wedding.
"Hahaha, I'm dying. Fifty thousand down to five bucks. Thomas, you are cold."
"A bet's a bet."
"You're not afraid she'll find out?"
"If she does, she does. Worst case I make it up to her. But... don't let her know it was your idea. No point in her blaming you."
I stared at that line for a long time. My lips twitched, wanting to smile. Nothing came.
So the five dollars had been because of her.
So he had "worried I'd blame her," and rather than that, he'd just skipped the explanation entirely.
He would rather I think him cold and heartless than let her carry a shred of it.
I tapped into her feed on impulse.
The newest post, a nine-photo grid.
The center one was a close-up of her clinking glasses with Thomas, captioned: "Fake engagement party, actors hired, a bet on whether a certain someone would dare object. He didn't. But once he found out it was fake he drank himself stupid, no idea what he was so happy about."
Someone had commented: "Ella, you played it this big? Not scared the act turns real?"
She'd replied with a tongue-out emoji:
"I just wanted to see whether he'd actually come stop the wedding. Verdict? Not bad. A passing grade."
I set the phone face-down on the couch.
I got up and headed for the bedroom to pack.
When I pulled open the nightstand drawer, a sheet of paper sat on top. An ultrasound report.
I'd planned to tell him tomorrow, on our eighth anniversary.
I'd booked the restaurant, bought a cake, tucked this report inside the gift box,
waiting to see his face when he opened it.
Would he smile? Would he freeze? Would he hold me?
Now I held that paper, its edges already folded and smoothed flat again and again.
This child. Was he worth giving Thomas one more chance?
Late that night, Thomas came home smelling of liquor.
He stumbled through the bedroom door, saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, came over and half-knelt in front of me, forehead pressed to my knee.
"Meg," he slurred, "I'm sorry... I shouldn't have snapped at you today."
His hand covered the back of mine, palm burning hot.
"Don't be angry, okay? Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll take you to that restaurant you've always wanted. We'll do it right."
I looked down at the slightly messy top of his head.
Then I slid the ultrasound report out of its envelope and held it out to him.
"Thomas, I'm pregnant."
He raised his head, his unfocused gaze settling on the paper, staring at it for a few seconds.
Then his expression changed. He reached out and took it, and with a rip,
he tore the paper down the middle, the pieces falling onto the sheets between us.
"Get rid of it," he said.
I looked at the scraps in the trash can, and for a second everything blurred.
"Say that again."
"I said get rid of it."
He raised a hand and pressed his brow, his voice turning irritable. "Meg, what are you trying to do, showing me this? Force me to marry you? Using a life to blackmail me?"
"Blackmail you? This baby's been coming for almost a month. I never said a word, I just wanted to surprise you on our anniversary—"
"Surprise?" He gave a short laugh and turned his face away.
"You call this a surprise? Meg, wake up. Stop being so desperate to get married, would you?"
In the second my eyes went red, I suddenly remembered him gripping my hand on the field in our sophomore year, saying, "Meg, let's get married the day we graduate. I'm scared you'll run off."
Now, out of the same mouth, only eight years apart, it had become "desperate to get married."
He must have realized he'd gone too far. His tone eased, and he reached out to pull me into his arms.
"Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll spend it with you properly. I already had my assistant book the restaurant, the flowers are ordered too. I'll think about the baby. We'll talk about getting married, slowly. All right?"
I let him hold me.
His chin rested on the top of my head, his breathing slowing, the smell of liquor washing over me, and a few minutes later he went still.
He was asleep.
I eased out of his arms.
I stood, picked up the torn scraps from the bed one by one, and cradled them in my palm.
Then I opened the suitcase and started packing my clothes.
He and I had no tomorrow, and no so-called marriage after.
