Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
“Ava,” I whisper. She’s clearly got enough energy to curse. “You need to eat.”
Her cheeks balloon, an unattractive sound rumbling up from her stomach. I step back, genuinely worried she’s actually going to throw up.
“I’m here,” Cathy sings, the door closing in the distance. She appears at the door. “Morning.” Then she takes us both in, Ava looking green, me looking worried. “Oh dear. Whatever is the matter?”
“Ava’s not feeling too good.”
“Oh, the dreaded morning sickness? It’ll pass.”
“Will it?” Ava asks, sounding truly hopeful, looking for reassurance as she sinks into my chest. “When?”
I look to Cathy, holding Ava, hugging her, fussing over her.
“It depends,” she says, starting her usual faff around the kitchen. “Boy, girl, mum, dad. Some women have a few weeks of it, some struggle throughout the whole of their pregnancy.”
Oh shit, that’s not ideal.
“Oh God,” Ava grumbles, clinging on to me weakly. “Don’t say that.”
“Ginger!”
I jump, jarring Ava from my chest. Ginger? Is she telling us ginger babies make morning sickness worse? “What?” Ava asks what we’re both wanting to know.
“Ginger.” Cathy dives into her bag and pulls out a pack of . . . biscuits? “You need ginger, dear. I came prepared.” I’m shoved aside. I’m not injured. Cathy’s just put one of those biscuits in Ava’s hand, telling her to have one every morning, and she’s started nibbling it without protest. It’s a miracle. Let’s see if she keeps it down. Ginger? Who would have thought. “It’ll settle your stomach.” Cathy pats Ava’s cheek, her old nose wrinkling. “I’m so excited.”
No shit. I claim my wife back and sit her on a stool, checking the biscuit. Half gone. This could be a gamechanger.
“The new boy gave me these,” Cathy says, holding out some envelopes. “Cute little bugger, isn’t he?”
Cuter than Clive? I hear Ava chuckle, life suddenly in her bones. Good for her. I take the envelopes on a scowl.
“He’s very sweet,” Ava says, as I work one of the envelopes open, still scowling.
They chat happily about the new concierge while Cathy makes breakfast and Ava works her way through her biscuit. I rest my arse on a stool and pull out a letter, seeing a few leaflets attached to the edge. At first I think it’s junk mail. Then I see Ava’s name. Or, at least, her old name. O’Shea. And her old address.
Where she lived with her ex.
Confused as fuck, I look at the front of the envelope. It’s addressed to me. Not Ava. And it’s marked private. Ava’s next to me, talking happily, a little more color in her cheeks, as Cathy pushes a plate toward me. I smile my thanks, going back to the letter, reading. It’s a scan appointment. I thought I told Ava I’d organize a private scan. But then I look at the date in the corner, mentally doing the math. This was sent a week ago. Last Monday, to be precise. Last Monday when I followed her to the surgery. Last Monday when she walked out of the doctor’s office and threw up all over the bathroom. Last Monday when she told me she wasn’t pregnant. That I’d failed.
A horrible coolness slithers through my veins as I read on, past the appointment date and time.
Options.
Will be discussed at the scan.
Termination last resort.
Consider adoption.
My stomach drops like a fucking rock as I turn the letter over and read the leaflets.
All on abortion.
“Eat your breakfast,” Ava says, sliding my plate closer to me. I look at her, everything inside becoming heavy. Everything hurting. She searches my face, her chewing slowing. I can see her mouth moving. Can’t hear a fucking word she’s saying. She was going to let me believe she was never pregnant? Have an abortion and not tell me?
“What is that?” Ava asks, leaning in to see the envelope.
“Go upstairs.” They’re the only words I can find.
She withdraws. “Why?”
“Don’t make me ask you again, Ava.” I feel like a tightly coiled spring, an inferno burning me from the inside out. What the fuck is this crazy?
Not arguing, she slips down from the stool, looking tense and uncertain, and I don’t have it in me to fix that. Cathy looks between us as Ava leaves, no questions asked. I have to take a moment to breathe some measured breaths. Options. To be rid of my baby. Our baby. She doesn’t want this baby.
I could sit here for a year and find no control.
I get up and follow Ava upstairs, entering the bedroom. “What the fuck is this?” I ask, waving the letter and leaflets in her face, noting how she takes a step back, a step away from me. It’s a good indication that I’m looking extremely volatile. I’m definitely feeling it.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice quiet.
I have to drop the letter, the damn thing burning my skin. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe the letter was sent to Ava by mistake. “You were going to kill our baby?”