No matter what gender our little potato ends up being.
Leo doesn’t reply, and I try to shove down the hurt, the fear—that he’s lying, that he’s left again, for good this time—and think.
I call Smitty.
“He’s here,” he answers on the first ring.
“Is he okay?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah, Harp-tastic. He drank his bodyweight in tequila?—”
“And I don’t even like tequila,” I hear Leo slur.
“And he doesn’t even like tequila,” Smitty parrots, a hint of amusement in his words. “Are you okay? He’s…well, I haven’t ever seen him like this. He just keeps saying I’m what’s wrong with her.”
Fuck, I’d said that.
“Should I come over and get him?” I ask, guilt churning through my insides.
“Nah,” Smitty says. “He’s?—”
“I’m not leaving!” Leo shouts. “Tell her I’m not leaving!”
Smitty’s voice drops. “He’s piss drunk. I guarantee he’ll be passed out in the next five minutes then won’t be moving from my couch for at least twelve hours?—”
“I’m not leaving?—”
“She knows, man,” Smitty says. “You told her. She knows.”
Leo’s tone is belligerent. “I shouldn’t have walked out. I promised.”
“It’s fine. You’re fine,” Smitty tells him. “Just lay down.”
My heart squeezes when Leo’s voice fades. “Smitty?”
“I’ve got him,” the big man says gently. “He’s half-asleep and on the couch already.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s family.” A breath. “Why don’t you just get some rest and come over in the morning to work things out before the baby shower?”
Fuck.
Kailey’s baby shower.
That I agreed to cater.
It’s tomorrow evening and I have a lot to do to prepare for it, and?—
“This is all messed up,” I say miserably.
“Breathe, Harp-tastic.”
I suck in a breath, release it slowly.
“Leo loves you,” he says. “I don’t know if he can say it aloud yet, but my boy is head over heels for you. And he’s worried he hurt you, worried he won’t be able to make it right with you. But you calling tells me he’s wrong—that you guys will be okay.”
I sniff.
