The next few weeks were a rhythm of work and skin. Fred’s days were spent at the hardware store, his hands sorting nails, his mind on the curve of Tommy’s hip. Her days were at the garage, her fingers greasy, her thoughts on the weight of him inside her. They met in the evenings at his grandfather’s house, the only place that felt like theirs, and they didn’t talk much. They ate. They showered. They fucked.
They fucked on the living room rug until the pattern was worn into her knees. They fucked in the shower until the hot water ran out. They fucked against the kitchen counter, her palms flat on the laminate, his breath hot on her neck. They fucked in the attic once, dust motes swirling in the slanting light, the old trunk digging into her back. They tried every angle, every surface, every pace he could think of. Slow and deep until she cried. Fast and hard until the headboard cracked the wall. Her on top, riding him, her breasts swaying, her eyes locked on his. Him on his back, her mouth on him, taking him deep until his vision blurred.
It was a hunger that felt like mapping. Learning the new geography of her. The way she gasped when he bit the inside of her thigh. The exact spot behind her ear that made her shiver. The sound she made—a choked, desperate whine—when he pushed three fingers into her cunt and curled them just so.
He came inside her every time. It was a rule he never spoke. He’d pull out only once, early on, to spill across her stomach, and the look on her face—a flicker of something like loss—stopped him from ever doing it again. After that, he stayed buried until he was soft, feeling his own release leak out of her, warm and claiming.
Two weeks in, she started falling asleep immediately after, a heavy, boneless weight against him. He’d lie awake, his hand on her lower belly, imagining a change. A firmness. A secret taking root. He’d press his palm there until his arm went numb.
Three weeks. A Tuesday. She came home late, smelling of gasoline and autumn air. She dropped her keys on the side table, her movements slower than usual. She didn’t come to him. She went to the kitchen sink and poured a glass of water, drinking it all in one long pull.
Fred watched from the doorway. “You okay?”
“Tired.” She set the glass down. It clicked against the porcelain. “Feel weird.”
“Weird how?”
She shrugged, but her hand drifted to her own stomach, resting there. A protective, unconscious gesture he’d never seen her make before. “Just off. My breasts are sore. Been queasy all afternoon.”
The air in the old house went very still. Fred heard the clock tick in the hall. He pushed off the doorframe. “Tommy.”
She looked at him then. Her green eyes were wide, the bravado completely gone. Just a naked, vulnerable hope. And a fear to match it.
“The drugstore,” he said. His voice was rough.
She nodded once.
He drove. She sat in the passenger seat, her hand in her lap, the silver ring glinting in the streetlight wash. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence was a third presence in the car, thick and humming.
He parked. She went in. He waited, engine off, watching the automatic doors slide open and shut for other people. She was inside for seven minutes. He counted. When she came out, she carried a small paper bag, clutched tight in her fist.
The drive back was darker. Quieter.
In the bathroom, she laid the contents on the edge of the sink: a blue box, stark and clinical. She read the instructions, her lips moving silently. Her hands were steady. His were not.
She did what it said. They waited. Three minutes, the box said. She set it on the back of the toilet and didn’t look. She turned and put her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the frantic beat of her heart through his shirt. He stared over her shoulder at the white plastic stick, the little window facing away from them.
The clock in the hall ticked. A pipe groaned in the wall. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
He didn’t know when three minutes were up. He just knew when she pulled away. She took a breath that shuddered all the way through her. She turned.
She picked up the stick. She looked at it. Her expression didn’t change. Then her knees buckled.
Fred caught her before she hit the tiles. He took her weight, lowering them both to the bathmat. He pried the plastic stick from her frozen fingers.
In the little window, clear as anything, were two bold blue lines.