Chapter 7: The Phone Call Revelation
The phone clattered on the butcher block, a sharp, plastic sound that echoed in the sudden silence of the kitchen. My own voice, that panicked baritone, still rang in my ears. Pregnant.
The floor seemed to tilt. I gripped the edge of the counter, my short nails—painted a chipping black—digging into the wood grain. The smoothie bowl I’d eaten an hour ago, something pink and acai-filled that Sabrina’s body craved, turned to a cold, sludgy weight in my stomach.
“Hello? Justin? Sabrina? Jesus, talk to me!” The voice tinny from the speaker was a grotesque parody of myself.
I fumbled for the phone, my movements clumsy, the world slightly blurred at the edges. The wine from last night, a cheap pink bottle Mark had brought home, still hummed in my bloodstream, making my head feel stuffed with cotton. I put the phone to my ear. My new ear, the one with five separate piercings that felt strange against the plastic.
“I’m here,” I whispered. My voice was a frail thing. “How… how do you know?”
Sabrina—in me—let out a shaky breath. “I did the math. It’s been over seventy days. Your body… my body… is like clockwork. Twenty-eight days, boom. A gift from my mom.” A harsh, mirthless laugh. “I’ve been waiting for it to hit you. For the cramps, the mood swings, something. When you didn’t say anything… I got a test. From the CVS down the street. I just pissed on a stick in your bathroom.”
I closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I saw the daily ritual: Mark lifting me, pushing into me, finishing inside me. Every morning. Sometimes at night. No protection. It never occurred to him. We were married. This was his right. And I… I was just a passenger. My body welcomed it. Betrayed me. A deep, visceral nausea, separate from the hangover, clawed up my throat.
“And?” The word was barely audible.
“Two lines, Justin. Dark as fucking hell.”
A sound escaped me—a choked-off gasp. I slid down the cabinet, my back against the cool wood, my ass hitting the floor. The yoga pants were thin, and I felt the chill of the hardwood through them. My breasts, constrained in the lace bra under my tank top, felt suddenly heavier, achingly full. My mind, my analytical, problem-solving mind, began to whirr, to latch onto variables. False positive. Hormonal imbalance from the swap itself. Anything.
“We need to be sure,” I said, forcing a steadiness I didn’t feel. “A doctor. A blood test.”
“A doctor?” Sabrina’s voice spiked. “And say what? ‘Hey, doc, my best friend’s consciousness is in my wife’s body, and we think she’s knocked up’? They’ll lock us both up.”
“We’ll think of something.” I was reassuring her, but the words felt hollow. I looked down at myself. At the tank top stretched over the swell of my chest, the subtle, terrifying softness of my lower belly that I’d attributed to rich food and lack of my old running routine. Had it been firmer yesterday? Was there a curve there that wasn’t just the roll of sitting? I pressed a hand against it. The fabric of the tank was soft. Underneath, my skin was warm. I imagined a cluster of cells, dividing, claiming space. A thing. Growing. In me.
“Mark,” I breathed.
“Oh, god, Mark,” Sabrina echoed, her horror mirroring mine. “He’ll be… he’ll be thrilled.”
The truth of it was a physical blow. He would be. A child. His child. Carried by his wife’s body. He’d be possessive, doting, more insistent than ever. The morning ritual would take on a new, sacred dimension. My throat tightened. I couldn’t breathe. The confines of the yoga pants, the pinch of the underwire in the bra, the tight band of the thong cutting between my ass cheeks—it all became a suffocating prison. I wanted to tear the clothes off, but they were my skin now.
“What do we do?” Sabrina asked, a desperate plea.
The back door rattled. My heart vaulted into my throat, a frantic hammering against my ribs.
“Gotta go,” I hissed. “He’s back.”
“Justin, wait—”
I ended the call and shoved the phone into the pocket of my yoga pants just as Mark stepped into the kitchen, wiping his boots on the mat. He filled the doorway, his shoulders blocking the light. He smelled of fresh air and damp soil.
“Hey, sexy,” he said, his grin easy, white. “Why you on the floor?”
My mind scrambled. Sabrina would have a quip. A seductive pose. A joke. I could only stare up at him, my eyes wide behind Sabrina’s vision—20/20, no glasses needed. I felt exposed, my secret pressing against my insides like a second, growing heart.
“Just… feeling a little off,” I managed, pushing myself up. The world swayed. The alcohol, the shock. I stumbled, my smaller feet, encased in fuzzy socks, slipping on the floor.
He was across the kitchen in two strides, his hands catching me under my arms, lifting me effortlessly. My feet dangled for a second before he set me down, his hands lingering on my waist. His touch burned through the thin tank top.
“Off how?” He peered down, his brow furrowed with a hint of concern that quickly morphed into a sly, knowing smile. “Not gonna puke, are you? We did hit that bottle pretty hard last night.” He leaned in, his nose nuzzling my hair. “You were wild, by the way.”
I forced a smile, a stretching of these full, unfamiliar lips. “Maybe just hungry.” It was a weak offering.
His hand slid from my waist down, palming the curve of my ass through the yoga pants, giving it a possessive squeeze. “I can fix that. But first…” He dipped his head, his mouth finding mine. His kiss was deep, demanding, tasting of coffee and mint. My body, the traitor, responded instantly. My lips parted. A soft noise, a Sabrina-noise, hummed in my throat. My hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, immovable wall of him.
He pulled back, his eyes dark. “You taste different today.”
Panic, cold and sharp, shot through me. Did he know? Could he sense the shift, the new presence lurking beneath my skin?
He chuckled, mistaking my fear for playfulness. “Kidding. You taste perfect.” He smacked my ass, a stinging, casual slap. “Go sit. I’ll make you some eggs.”
He turned to the fridge, pulling out cartons. I stood, rooted, watching the man who believed he was my husband. The father of what might be growing inside the body he owned. The weight in my belly felt no longer like imagined cells, but like a stone. A verdict. I walked on unsteady legs to the island and climbed onto a stool. The photo on the fridge—Sabrina and Mark, beaming—seemed to mock me.
He cracked eggs one-handed into a bowl, his muscles flexing. “Big pour got postponed. Rain coming,” he said, his back to me. “Got the whole day free.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze hot, explicit. “Gonna take care of my wife.”
The promise in his voice wasn’t gentle. It was a schedule. A demand. My skin prickled. Between my legs, the familiar ache from the morning was still there, a bruised, used feeling. But beneath it, buried deep, a new, terrifying possibility was taking root. I wrapped my arms around my middle, over the soft, deceptive flatness of my stomach, and said nothing at all.