That Mad Girl Is Mine โทษที ผู้หญิงสติไม่ดีนั่นเป็นของผม

MIA

The first thing I do when I wake up is touch my stomach.

It is almost ridiculous because there is nothing to feel yet. No little kick, no tiny movement beneath my palm, nothing that could prove the secret growing inside me is real. Still, my hand settles there before I am even fully awake, and for a few seconds I lie beneath the sheets with my eyes closed, smiling at the ceiling because I know something Saint doesn't.

It is our anniversary and I'm pregnant.

The thought still feels too big to fit inside my head.

I turn slowly onto my side and look at the man sleeping beside me.

Saint is facing away from me, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, dark hair slightly messy against the white sheets. He looks nothing like the man everyone else sees. There is no leather jacket, no gun resting against his hip, no hard expression that makes grown men lower their voices when he walks into a room. Right now, he is simply my husband, asleep in our bed with his back turned toward me.

For a moment, I let myself imagine that everything between us is different.

I imagine waking him with the news, imagine the surprise on his face when I place the little black socks I bought in his hand, imagine him looking at them for a long second before realizing what they mean. Maybe he'll smile. Maybe he'll pull me into his arms. Maybe he'll kiss my forehead and tell me that he's happy.

Maybe he'll finally look at me and see more than the woman he married because my father asked him to.

My smile fades a little at the thought, but I don't let it stay there.

Not today.

Today, I am going to tell him. I want today to be achingly beautiful for us.

I reach over carefully and pick up my phone from the nightstand. The screen says 6:17 a.m. I have been awake for nearly an hour, mostly because every time I close my eyes, my mind runs through all the different ways I could tell him.

I've considered breakfast.

I've considered leaving the pregnancy test beside his coffee.

I've considered simply saying, *Saint, I'm pregnant*, and letting the words fall between us without dressing them up.

Instead, I have bought something.

I slip out of bed quietly, open the bottom drawer of my nightstand, and take out the small black box hidden beneath a stack of old receipts. Inside are the tiniest pair of black socks I have ever seen.

They are so small that I laugh every time I look at them.

Saint wears black almost every day. Black shirts. Black boots. Black jeans. Black leather. Even the watch he wears is black, and the men in his club have joked more than once that the man has probably never owned a shirt that wasn't dark enough to hide blood.

So when I saw these little socks yesterday, I bought them without thinking.

They have tiny white skulls stitched near the toes.

I can already hear his reaction. *"Seriously, Mia?"*

And I'll laugh and tell him our baby needs to start early.

The thought warms me so much that I press the box against my chest for a second before putting it back in the drawer.

I get dressed and head downstairs.

The house is quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that only exists before the Night Saints clubhouse wakes up and before Saint's phone starts ringing every five minutes. Sunlight is barely coming through the kitchen windows, turning everything soft and pale.

I make coffee the way he likes it.

Two sugars. No cream.

I still remember the first time I made it wrong.

I had been eighteen, newly married, and so nervous about being Saint's wife that I had spent twenty minutes trying to make a cup of coffee that could impress a man who had probably never been impressed by anything in his life.

He had taken one sip, looked at me, and said, "Too sweet."

I had wanted to throw the entire cup at his head.

Instead, I had memorized the exact amount of sugar he liked.

Three years later, I still make it the same way.

Maybe that's what marriage has become for me. Remembering things.

Remembering how he takes his coffee. Remembering which side of the bed he prefers. Remembering that he likes his eggs barely cooked and hates when his shirts are ironed too sharply because he says the creases make him look like he's going to a funeral.

Remembering all the tiny pieces of a man who has never seemed interested in learning mine.

I put breakfast on the table and glance toward the staircase.

Maybe today he'll notice.

Maybe today I'll tell him.

Maybe having a baby will change something.

I hate that I am still hopeful.

I hate it even more because hope feels so good.

Footsteps sound upstairs, and my heart gives a stupid little jump.

A moment later, Saint walks into the kitchen.

He has already changed into black jeans and a fitted dark shirt, his sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair is still slightly damp, and there is a phone pressed to his ear as he listens to someone on the other end.

And then he sees me.

His eyes pause on me for half a second.

Then he says into the phone, "I'll handle it."

He ends the call and puts the phone on the counter.

"Morning."

One word.

It shouldn't mean anything. But It does.

"Morning." I reply back, my stomach turning at just a simple greeting.

His eyes move to the table. "You made breakfast."

"I did."

He pulls out a chair and sits. I watch him reach for his coffee.

He takes one sip, then he looks at me.

"You finally got it right."

I stare at him. "What?"

"The coffee."

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. "It only took three years."

His mouth moves slightly, almost a smile.

"You're getting better."

"Don't sound so surprised Saint."

"I'm surprised by a lot of things."

I sit across from him, trying not to smile too much.

This is nothing. It's barely a conversation.

But for me, it feels like something big.

Saint picks up a piece of toast, and I watch his hands while he eats. There is a faint scar across his knuckle that I have known for years. I know which side he sleeps on. I know he hates when anyone touches his motorcycle without asking. I know he doesn't like crowded restaurants, hates tomatoes, and never drinks coffee after noon because it keeps him awake.

I know these things because I have spent three years paying attention.

I wonder what he knows about me.

Before I can ask myself that question for too long, Saint reaches across the table and wipes something from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

I freeze at the contact.

His hand stays there for one second longer than necessary.

"You have jam."