The Green Lace Corset, стр. 52
“Annie, you look g—” He pulled back the hand he’d put on her shoulder. “You look different in the light.”
What was that supposed to mean? Mr. Wanna-be-Cowboy, not looking so handsome in the light either. “So do you.”
Instead of a cowboy hat, he wore a stained Dallas baseball cap, and had grown a mangy goatee. “Where’ve you been? I was afraid it was a one-night stand.” He laughed like a neighing horse.
She tried to laugh too—unsuccessfully. “I’ve been busy. And you?”
His bloodshot eyes moved to her getting-larger-by-the-minute pregnancy cleavage. “I haven’t seen you at Ruby’s lately.”
She zipped her sweatshirt closed and felt for the swabs wrapped carefully in her pocket. “I know. How’ve you been?” she asked.
“Groovy. I’ve been liking your Instagram posts. Have you been seeing mine?” he asked.
She shook her head. Did he just say groovy?
“They’re getting a lot of attention. My LPPs have gone up. The photo of me in my chaps got one twenty-five.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”
“Likes per post.”
“Oh.” She licked the whipped cream off her mocha and took a sip. The warmth of the drink seemed to help settle her stomach.
“Yeah, I’m crushing it.” He did an arm pump.
His eyes followed a girl of about twenty, wearing plenty of makeup and tight lululemon yoga pants, as she walked by and sat at a table next to them.
How could Anne ever have slept with this repugnant guy? And how could she tell him now that she might be carrying his child? Suddenly, she felt queasy. “Excuse me.”
She ran to the restroom and threw up. She rinsed her mouth in the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Her pale face accentuated raccoon-like dark circles under her eyes.
What now? Maybe she could tell him she’d found out she had an STD and needed a sample, just to be sure she hadn’t given it to him. No, that was lame. It was always best to tell the truth, so she’d do just that.
When she came out of the restroom, Barnaby was chatting up the lululemon girl.
Anne wandered back to the table and sat down. “Sorry.”
“You look horrible.”
“I’m not feeling well. I think I’m coming down with something.” She clutched a tissue from her backpack and blew her nose.
“I’d better go.” He stood.
“I thought we might have a chat.”
“Some other time. I’ll message you.”
“But . . .”
He turned and slunk out.
What a jerk. He hadn’t even thrown away his cup. A teenage worker with a buzz cut and bad zits came by with a trash bag and reached for it.
Anne wiggled her hands over it. “Wait! I’m saving cups to use in art projects.”
“Whatever.” The boy shrugged and walked away.
With a fresh napkin, she carefully slipped Barnaby’s cup into her backpack.
Later, at home, she put on surgical gloves she had for working with toxic art materials, ripped open the sealed paper covering the Q-tips, and extracted them. Hoping this would work, she ran the first one carefully along the coffee cup rim and placed it inside the sample envelope. She repeated the process three more times.
She closed her eyes and prayed: Please, God, don’t let him be the father.
The tiny print at the bottom of the sample envelope was so small she could barely make it out, but it seemed to be some kind of disclaimer saying that she’d read, understood, and agreed to the terms and conditions. There wasn’t a space to sign it, though—just some information to fill in. So she wouldn’t be doing anything illegal, would she?
The form asked for first and last names, and birthday. She realized she didn’t even know Barnaby’s last name. She could probably find it on Facebook, but she didn’t want to have his name on her baby’s birth certificate anyway. She scribbled in “Barnaby Cowboy” and a birth date. “Alleged father” was one of the boxes to tick. “Alleged”—such an intense word. She checked it and the box for Caucasian, then slid the forms and samples inside the first-class return package and sealed it securely.
She called a Lyft and rushed to the post office before it closed. Tomorrow she’d have the blood sample drawn and sent directly to the DNA company. If Barnaby was the father, her decision would be easier.
On pins and needles, she checked for online results several times a day. She worked at the museum on Wednesday and Saturday, did her yoga practice, and added more paint to the Southwest sky piece. Sometimes the best way to dispel her anxiety was to just lie on the daybed, play soft music, and rub her belly.
A week later, she still had no DNA results. Darn it!
She studied the sky piece sitting on the easel and felt the canvas needed something more. She gathered the pile of printed nature photos from her Southwest trip, sat at the kitchen table, and cut around the images—deer, boulders, ponderosa pine, oak, meadow. She carried the canvas to the table, laid it flat, and adhered the photos on top of the sky in a collage. Afterward, she washed her hands and took a nap.
When she got up, she logged back in to the paternity-testing site. Finally, there was a response. We’re sorry, but no DNA results were able to be determined from your recent sample.
Oh my God! She had known it was a long shot, but she had hoped upon hope it would work.
Anne texted Fay: SOS
Fay called back right away. “What’s up?”
“No DNA found on the cup. What do I do next?” Anne knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. She looked at the sky piece, wishing she were back in peaceful northern Arizona.
“Bloody hell. I’m sorry. You go to Barnaby again, or Sergio, and get a real sample.”
“I guess I’ll ask Sergio.” They hadn’t spoken in a few weeks. He’d sent her a few funny gifs and texted, but she’d been avoiding a full conversation. Was there a way she could tell him without revealing the whole truth?
She hung up the phone, picked