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“About what?”
“About having nothing to tell me.”
“What’s going . . . on?” I ask, getting agitated, shifting on the bed and regretting it. “God . . . damn . . .”
“Keep still.”
“Fine.” I’m out of bloody breath already. Useless. “Tell me what’s . . . going on.”
His lips roll, his forehead becoming heavy. I don’t like that look. “You’re pregnant.”
I still, staring at him as he obviously watches for my reaction. “Pardon . . . me?” Is he trying to be funny? Because I haven’t the capacity to laugh.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I heard you . . . the first . . . time.”
He laughs. “Then don’t ask me to repeat myself.”
“I can’t be preg . . . pregnant,” I grate, straining with the effort to remain still. “This is a really stupid”—Breathe—“joke.”
“I’m not joking.” He smiles softly, taking my hand. “You’re going to be a mom.”
“I’m too . . . young to be a . . . mum.”
“And I’m old enough to be a dad?”
“Maybe too . . . old,” I wheeze.
“Thanks.”
“Pregnant?”
He nods, very slowly, very seriously. I turn my wide-eyed stare up to the ceiling. Frown. Wait. “And the baby’s . . . okay?”
“The baby is fine, but you’re on strict bed rest and watch.”
“Sounds fun,” I mumble. Fucking pregnant? “Can’t”—I wince—“wait.”
“If I had access to your ass, I’d spank it.”
“Oh . . . Brad,” I say, breathless. “Stop with the . . . daddy talk.”
“Jesus, Pearl.”
I laugh, it hurts, so I stop.
Oh my God.
Pregnant?
Brad seems so together. Accepting. He’s okay with this? “Are you . . . here out of duty?”
His face. Oh, his face. “Shut the hell up, Pearl.”
“Okay.” I bite at my lip, sorry, and Brad sighs. I’m bloody pregnant. And he’s okay. But me? Am I? I sag into the bed, even more exhausted, without the ability to truly process this news. I’m not sure how I should feel. Shocked? Happy? Scared? “How’s . . . Nolan?”
“In a better state than you.”
