At work, Ethan was always smooth with clients. He was the kind of man who got others drunk, not the other way around. And every time he passed out, it had always been when he was with me.
He used to tell me I was his favorite cocktail, which was able to make him drunk without forcing a drop.
Men really could play drunk well enough to make you cry, so I no longer believed his lies.
“It’s fine. Work comes first,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“By the way, you’ve got lipstick on. Wipe it off later,” I added, pointing to his collar.
He followed my finger and then, seeing the mark, his face tightened. “Don’t get the wrong idea, babe. I probably just brushed against someone by accident.”
“Alright,” I replied.
My calm must have convinced him as he leaned in, wanting to reward me with a kiss, but I stepped aside.
If he thought I was “dirty,” why could he still act tender without missing a beat?
My refusal made him frown, and his face hardened. “I won’t be home for dinner. Don’t wait up.”
He then grabbed his keys without ever noticing the pregnancy test I’d left in plain sight.
“Ethan, I’m pregnant—” I began.