“So…Leo?”
I make a face and she lights up like a Christmas tree. “Tell me everything. Are we shit-talking Leo or do we like him now? Please say shit-talking because I’m feeling a lot of feminine rage towards men at the moment.”
“Why?”
“Why else?” She scowls. “They’re men and they make shitty jokes and denigrate women on social media and—” She waves a hand before settling it on her belly and absently rubbing it. “Don’t get me started. I probably won’t stop and then I’ll be ranting at you about the dude who looks like a big toe acting like the gorgeous female doctor he’s dating is beneath him.”
“He looks like a toe?”
She tsks. “Clearly you’re behind on episodes of our favorite show.”
I am.
Because Leo and I…
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Watch it and then tell me if you don’t think he looks like a toe.” She winces and rubs at her belly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yuppers.” She smiles and waves her hand at me again. “Being this pregnant is no joke.”
“You’re past your due date, right?” I ask, seizing on the topic so I don’t have to confess what I’ve been up to with Leo.
“Sure am. My induction date looms.” She tilts her head to the side. “So…”
“Your Luna Detectors are triggered, aren’t they?”
“Also, yuppers.” She grins. “Mostly because Leo came by the house and asked me to check in on you.” Her face gentles. “Said you’d had a rough day and might not want to see him right now.”
That fragile bud of hope I’ve been doing my best to trample explodes outward, growing like a magical beanstalk, stealing my breath, my words, maybe a touch of my sanity?—
Luna gasps and stands, saving me from having to come up with something to say.
Because her water has just broken.
Twenty-Six
Leo
The knock at the door has me setting the crochet needles aside, stopping the tutorial I’ve been streaming on my TV, and hurrying to the door.
I told Luna not to bother coming over.
I just wanted to make sure that Harper was good while I figured out how to make her see that I’m not going anywhere.
And all I’ve managed to come up with is that I need to give her time.
Time that I’m around.
Evidence that I’m not going to leave her.
But how long will it take for her to believe that?
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, shoving the doubts aside—that I can be enough for her, that I won’t turn shit toxic, that I can be better than my parents.
Because I have to be.
