The Whole Damn Night Sky

"Please do not tell me you drove an hour and a half away for chocolate..."

This is the last chapter and then another sequel will start.

"Don't leave while I'm at work. Promise me you won't leave." Bradley whispers.

"I won't leave." I whisper.

"You're on bed rest. Your Mom will be here in an hour to make sure you obey the rules."

"Okay." I whisper.

He leans down and gives me a long kiss. "The volume is up all the way on my phone. Call me if there's any news."

"Okay."

He leaves.

That was this morning.

I'm eight and a half months pregnant with twins and I decided that since my hubby is at work, I was going to run to the store to get chocolate.

Only the store I went to was Godiva, and that's an hour and a half away.

I'm on bed rest. I'm supposed to be waiting till I have the twins.

I was at work for three and a half months before Dad and Bradley demanded for me to go on maternity leave.

But I had to have some fucking chocolate.

My phone has been going nuts for over an hour because Mom is at the house, not apartment, we moved after the wedding, and I'm not there.

My battery dies just now, due to excessive amounts of my morning on Instagram during traffic.

It's mid-February.

In fact, tomorrow is Valentine's day.

I already told Bradley that he better fuck me at least three times tomorrow.

There is two types of pregnant woman, I've learned.

There is like Kyra, my sister in law, where you don't have sex because you just are never in that mood.

Then there's me, where I am so perverted, I can make anything a dildo or a dick if I use my imagination, and I struggle to be in the same room with my husband without pulling him in a bathroom.

Seriously, it's so bad that I made him fuck me in a 7-11 parking lot.

We have sex once or twice a day.

Bradley doesn't complain. I wake him up all the time by taking his pants off.

He loves sex.

What guy doesn't, right?

I waddle through the snow to my white 2006 Chrysler Pacifica.

I get in my car and turn the key.

The engine sputters splutters, but it doesn't roar to life.

I look in the rearview mirror at the empty car seats.

One pink one with the name Abigail Emma Scone and the other with the name Noah Bradley Scone sewn into it.

Looking at them is like a habit now, like I'm checking on my children that are inside of me. I try to start the car again, but once again, it just sputters.

I get out and slam the door.

Good going Emma, your eight and a half months pregnant and you have to fix your car.

I refuse to call my hubby for help.

Oh wait, I couldn't if I wanted to.

My phone is fucking dead.