It looks just like it does on TV. Exactly like the picture on the box.
“Just pee on the stick for five seconds. Set the stick on the counter. Wait.”
Worried I might accidentally pee on my hand, I decide I don’t want to have to deal with pulling my pants back up, so I shove them and my underwear off. Then I walk to the little toilet room with nothing but my shirt on and leave the door open.
I purposefully didn’t go to the bathroom after we landed, and now I really have to pee, so even though I’m freaking out, I sit with my legs spread wide and immediately start to go.
And I pee on the stick.
Five seconds feels like forever. But I can’t really stop going once I start, so now I’m just sitting here, holding the peed-on test in front of me while I finish.
It’s going to be fine.
It will all be fine.
I repeat that mantra to myself as I fumble with the toilet paper one handed and then walk bare assed back to the sink.
I’m careful to set the test away from the edge of the counter so I don’t accidentally bump it, then wash my hands. Twice. Then I set my phone alarm for the correct amount of time, according to the test box, and go into the closet.
Dressed in my comfort outfit—sweatpants and Dom’s Yale sweatshirt—I pace into the bedroom.
These are the longest minutes I’ve ever lived. But I can’t just stand there and watch the test. I have to wait it out.
I’m turning, ready to pace the other way, when my eye catches on something glittering in the sun.
Is that…？
My breath catches as I move toward the chair in the corner of the room. Because sitting on the seat is the bowl. My bowl. The one I bought at the Christmas market.
It takes me two tries to swallow as I lift it into my hands.
Using my fingertip, I trace the upper lip of the brightly painted bowl, spinning it slowly, feeling the perfectly smooth surface all the way around.
I bite down on my lower lip to keep it from trembling.
The chipped part, the piece I broke when I fell, has been filled. With hundreds of tiny diamonds. And sealed with something clear and smooth. So when you close your eyes, you can’t even tell where it is.
I hug the bowl to my chest.
Dominic fixed it for me.
He fixed what was broken and made it better.
I am so fucking in love with this man.
When my phone timer goes off, I set the bowl back where I found it and slowly walk back into the bathroom.
Standing two steps away from the counter, I press my palms to my cheeks.
My stomach is rolling.
My heart is thudding.
And I don’t even know what answer I’m hoping for anymore.
I can do this.
I can do anything.
I step closer and look at the test.
CHAPTER 74
Dom
Me: Landed. Make sure you order dinner. And don’t leave for anything.
Angel: I won’t.
Angel: I mean I won’t leave.
Angel: I will order dinner.
Angel: I already did.
Angel: Glad you made it.
Angel: Please be safe.
I smile to myself.
Me: Never change, Valentine.
Me: Morning, Shorty. I won’t have great service today. I’ll send another number for you to save. It’s satellite.
Me: *sends new contact number*
Me: I’ll still be able to check my phone occasionally, but call that number if you need something urgent.
Angel: Okay. My work is closed until New Year’s, so I’ll just be here eating takeout and watching TV. Don’t worry about me.
Me: If I can’t reach out and touch you, I’ll worry about you.
Me: Tell me something good.
Angel: I ordered groceries this morning and have been baking Christmas cookies.
A pained scream rips through the air as I smile down at my phone.
Me: I think I need proof of this.
Angel: *sends photo of sink full of dirty mixing bowls*
Me: I want your pretty face in the picture, Angel.
Angel: sends selfie with her hair up in a bun and a bit of flour on her cheek
I save the photo to my phone, then save it as my background image.
Me: I’m looking forward to eating your cookie.
Angel: I want you to know how hard I’m rolling my eyes.
I roll onto my back and groan. The mattress in this place is shit.
As I’m reaching for my phone, it buzzes with an incoming text.
Angel: I miss you.
Warmth floods my heart, and I hold the phone against my chest, letting my eyes close.
I’m ready to go home and be done with this.
Me: I miss you, too.
Angel: Happy Christmas Eve.
Me: I’ll be home tomorrow morning. You’ll never spend Christmas Day alone again.