WADE
A knock on the door causes us to both look up. "I got it," I tell Nina, rising from my seat. It must be room service with the food we requested. When I open the door, I am correct. A hotel employee stands there with a tray, and I thank them before taking over and wheeling it inside.
Nina remains seated on the couch as I bring the tray into the living area, and I look at her as I uncover the dishes, my concern growing. Something is off.
I don’t know if it’s because she picked up on the fact that I want to talk about pregnancy, but she’s different. She’s uneasy, and I asked earlier if everything was okay, to which she said yes. But I don’t believe her.
She doesn’t have to be nervous, though, because I’m not angry at her. I just want to talk because we can’t pretend it didn’t hap
