That last one is entirely my fault.

God, I can’t wait for this pregnancy to be over so things can get back to normal.

Chapter 15

If there were any justice in the world, Sam would have a whopping hangover the next morning. But maybe he didn’t have as much to drink as I’d thought, because he seems fine. So fine, actually, that I catch him whistling in the bathroom while he’s shaving his face.

What the hell is he so happy about?

I say as much to him while he’s putting on his tie, and he blinks a few times, surprised. “Uh, I don’t know. It’s a nice morning.”

“I thought you might be hungover.”

He rolls his eyes. “I told you I didn’t drink that much.”

“You were acting like you did.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but while he’s putting on his shoes, he starts whistling again. I’ve never known Sam to whistle before, but after one evening with Monica, suddenly he’s a goddamn teapot. Did he whistle like this when we were first dating?

“Do you think Monica is pretty?” I blurt out.

“Pretty?”

“Yes.”

“No way.” He smiles crookedly. “She’s not pretty at all. Just the opposite. She’s really horrible to look at. I didn’t want to be mean or anything, but I had to squeeze my eyes shut all night like this.” He scrunches his eyes closed in a demonstration. “I hope she didn’t notice.”

“Haha, very funny.”

“I don’t know much about women, but I know there’s only one right answer when your wife asks you if another woman is pretty.”

Fair enough. “You just seemed to be having a really good time with her last night.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Abby, you’re the one who wanted to have her over for dinner last night. And you’re the one who showed up two hours late. You made me promise to be ‘well-behaved.’ So she shows up and I’m nice to her, and now I’m in trouble?”

“Well, there’s nice and there’s nice.”

“It’s not like we were making out, Abby. We were just talking.”

He’s actually making some reasonable points. So why can’t I get rid of that tight, awful feeling in my chest?

“She called you Sammy,” I say.

“So?”

“It seemed a little… familiar. Also, you hate being called Sammy.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You told me you hate it.”

He yanks his keys off the dresser. “Fine, I hate it. I hate it and I hate her and I don’t want you to invite her here ever again. Okay? Happy?”

I lower my eyes. There’s part of me that realizes I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t help it. Something isn’t right. “Are you going to that ultrasound appointment?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, I am.”