The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 404

Mia's POV

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” I repeated.

But no one was listening.

Alexander had already dropped to the floor, pressing his face against Gas's side. He said, “You're going to be a mom, Gas. Are you ready?”

Gas licked his face.

“She says she's ready,” Alexander declared.

“She didn't say anything,” I said. “She just licked your face.”

“That's how dogs talk.”

Ethan crouched on Gas's other side, his hand on her belly. “I can't feel anything.”

“Of course you don't,” I said. “If she really is pregnant—I mean, if—it's only the first day. The puppies are just cells.”

“Cells become puppies,” Madison murmured. She was still standing by the couch, keeping her distance, but her eyes were bright. “Just like I was once a cell.”

“Yes,” I said. “Just like that.”

Kyle shifted from the wall. “You okay?” I asked him.

He nodded. But his face looked awful. That grayish-white color. Like old newspaper.

“You should go home,” I said.

“I want to stay here.”

The way he said it made arguing impossible.

I turned toward the bathroom. “Gas needs a bath,” I said. “She's covered in mud.”

“I'll help!” Alexander jumped up.

“Me too!” Ethan said.

“No,” I said. “You'll just make the bathroom worse.”

“But Mama—”

"No. I'll do it myself. You guys go play.“

Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

”Go,“ I said.

They slowly dispersed. Alexander headed toward the TV. Ethan followed him. Madison remained standing by the couch, looking at Kyle, then at me.

”Are you sure you don't need help?“ she asked.

My heart softened a little. This little girl. Always asking if someone needs help.

”I'm sure,“ I said gently. ” But thank you for asking.“

She nodded, then sat down on the sofa next to Kyle, her small hands resting on her knees.

I walked over to Gas. ”Come on, girl. Bath time.“

Gas lifted her head to look at me. Her eyes said she didn't want to.

”Yes, now,“ I said. ”You're covered in mud and who knows what else."

She stood up, slowly, as if every joint protested. Then she followed me toward the bathroom.

The tub was small. Our entire apartment was small. But it was enough.

I turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right. Gas didn't like water that was too hot.

“Come in,” I told her, patting the edge of the tub.

She looked at me. Then at the tub. Then back at me.

“Don't give me that look. You know this is inevitable.”

She sighed—a dramatic dog sighs—then climbed into the tub.

The water rose over her paws, then her legs, then her belly. She stood there, wearing the expression of a martyr.

I laughed. For the first time today, I laughed genuinely.

“You're such a drama queen,” I told her.

I picked up the showerhead and started rinsing her fur. The water turned brown, mud and grass and God knows what else washing off her.

Her fur was thick. Golden. Darkening when wet, clinging to her. I could feel the muscles beneath her skin, her ribs, her chest rising and falling as she breathed.

“You might be a mom soon,” I told her, my voice low enough that no one outside the bathroom could hear. “Are you ready?”

She didn't answer. Just stood there, enduring the bath.

I squeezed some shampoo—dog-specific, lavender-scented—into my hands and began working it into her fur. Foam formed. White. Slipping between my fingers.

“Alexander says he wants to keep a puppy,” I continued. “If there really are puppies.”

Gas's tail twitched gently.

“Ethan would be more practical,” I said. “He'd list the pros and cons of getting a puppy.” “

I rinsed away the lather. The water turned white again, then clear.

”Madison would love them quietly,“ I said. ”She wouldn't ask for anything. Just sit in the corner, let the puppies climb onto her lap, and then she'd stroke them with that special gentle way."

My eyes stung.

Not from the shampoo.

“And me,” I said, “I'd pretend to be angry. Pretend it was a huge hassle. Pretend I didn't want puppies running around the house, chewing our shoes, peeing on the carpet.”

I turned off the water. The bathroom suddenly fell silent. Only the sound of water dripping from Gas's fur into the tub.

“But really,” I whispered, "really, I'd love them. Just like I love you. Just like I love them all.“

Gas turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were brown. Deep brown. They looked especially big amid the wet fur.

”I know,“ I told her. ”I know."

I picked up the towel—big, old, reserved specifically for bathing Gas—and started drying her off. Her fur soaked up a lot of water. The towel quickly became saturated, and I had to switch to another one.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mia?” It was my mother's voice. “Lunch is ready.”

“Okay,” I called back. “I'll be right there.”

“Is Kyle here too?”

I paused. “He is.”

“Good. I made enough for everyone.”

I heard her footsteps recede.

Gas shook herself, sending droplets splattering onto the bathroom walls, the mirror, my face.

“Thanks,” I said, wiping my face.

I opened the bathroom door. Warm steam poured out, meeting the cooler air outside.

Sounds drifted in from the living room. Kids talking. The TV was on. Some cartoon. I heard Kyle's voice, low, answering Alexander's questions.

I led Gas out of the bathroom. She was still dripping, leaving wet footprints on the floor.

“You need to be dried,” I told her.

We walked to my bedroom. I took the hair dryer from the closet and plugged it in.

Gas backed away when she saw the dryer.

“Don't be like that,” I said. “You know it's necessary.”

She sat down. But her ears were flattened back.

I turned on the dryer. Not the highest setting. Medium heat. I began drying her fur, starting at her back, then her sides, then her legs.

The fur began to lift. Becoming fluffy. Returning to that soft golden color.

My hands ached. My arms ached. But I kept going. Brushing her fur over and over until it was completely dry, fluffy, smelling of lavender.

“There,” I finally said, turning off the dryer. “All done.”

Gas stood up, shook herself off, then walked over to my bed and jumped up.

“Gas, no—”

But she was already lying down, her head on my pillow, looking at me with an expression that said: I suffered. I deserve this.

I sighed. “Fine. You win.”

I stepped out of the bedroom. Sounds came from the kitchen. Clattering of dishes. My mom was talking.

I walked into the kitchen.

The table was loaded with food.

Too much food.

Pasta. Salad. Bread. And something that looked like meatballs.

“Mom,” I said, “when did you make all this?”

“While you were bathing the dog,” she said, not looking up. She was slicing bread. “I figured since Kyle's here, we should have a proper meal.”

“You didn't have to—”

“I know I didn't. I wanted to.” She looked up at me. “He's dying, Mia. Let me cook him a meal.”

She said it calmly. No emotion. Just a statement of fact.

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