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“Wait, Sulli’s pregnant?” Jesse stands up straighter, and I can see him more clearly now. His jaw falls open. Eyes wide.
Fuck.
Fuck.
We don’t need to worry about Oscar spilling shit—‘cause here I am, Banks Roscoe Moretti, doing that all on my goddamn own.
My big fuckin’ mouth.
How did I forget Jesse is in the room?
He’s been ducked down behind the camera.
Jack runs a tensed hand through his hair. “Yeah, Sulli is pregnant.”
No reprimand from Akara—which means he doesn’t give a shit that Jesse knows. He just nods to Jesse. “Let’s keep this in the secret circle.” He motions with his hands, indicating that the circle is here.
Jesse’s shaggy hair sways as he nods. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Does, uh, Winona know?” He waits for the answer with bated breath. Before we can answer, he’s speaking fast. “We’re sort of friends—I don’t know what you’d call it, actually.”
Akara frowns. “Why?”
“She gave me her number this week. But I don’t know how much she actually trusts me…” Jesse shrugs. “So she doesn’t know? Or she does?”
“She doesn’t,” Akara says stiffly. “A select few people know, and we’d like to keep it that way during the Olympics. So again, secret circle.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Jesse promises, eyeing me and Akara back and forth. “Who’s the dad?”
Jack lets out a breath. “Kuya—”
“Sorry.” Jesse raises his hands. “Yeah, I know, not cool. Forget what I said.”
“We don’t know who the dad is,” Akara says candidly. “We don’t want to know until the birth.”
We’re just putting it all out there.
Alright. I try to relax back.
Take the wheel, Kitsuwon.
Jesse bobs his head. “Cool. Cool. You three are like the sickest triad I know.”
Jack smiles. “They’re the only triad you know.”
“Yeah, and all my friends back in Long Beach love them. Now you guys are having a baby together. Domestic shit and all that. It’s like giving a finger to all the haters. What sweet revenge, right?”
More like, what sweet, sweet pressure.
The world will probably be eyeing us keenly. Seeing if we make a misstep as parents. Seeing if we fail. Then they’ll say having a family as a triad can’t work. Look at Akara, Banks, and Sulli—they nuked it.
Gotta be the best dads.
Gotta be the best mom.
Hell, I don’t even know how to be a decent dad right now.
If I could tear off my ballistic vest, I’d do it—I’d go buck-ass naked right now. A gallon of sweat is pooling underneath the thick fabric.
Jack sees me. “We don’t have to talk about the pregnancy.”
“Good.” I shift again. “Let’s just stick to the Olympics.”
Akara softens his gaze on me, then nods to Jack. “Just the Olympics.” Throughout the interview, I feel Akara cast glance after glance in my direction. Worried.
I think he’s been worried since I admitted I’d be a good uncle but not a good dad.
I’m not going anywhere. That part is true. But how do I eliminate the fear that lives inside me? Being the son of Michael Moretti, I just want a crystal ball that shows me and says, you’ll never be him when you’re a dad. You’ll be so much better in the end.
* * *
“How’d it go?” Sulli asks, meeting us right outside the interview door. As soon as we got word she’d be here, I couldn’t catapult myself out of the interview any fucking faster.
Dressed out of Team USA clothing, Sulli just wears jean shorts, a striped shirt, and jean jacket. That’s my girlfriend. Seeing her, I yearn like something powerful to just draw her into my chest. But I don’t.
Why the fuck am I hesitating?
She’s safe.
I realize the weight of the interview is still crushing me. My non-answers. My silence. My dismissal of talking about her pregnancy. I feel cowardly. Like I didn’t do right by her.
Her brown hair cascades over her broad swimmer’s shoulders. Six feet tall in sneakers, she’s still seven inches shorter than me, and I find myself dipping my head a little.
While Akara is chatting with the temp guards, we’re all lingering in the hotel hallway, and I nod to Sulli, “Alright.”
She watches me stuff my fists in my jeans. “It can be fucking hard for me too.”
I hold her gaze.
“Especially at first,” she says, “I had such a fucked time trying to get the words out. I kept tripping up.”
“At least you tried.” I briefly cast a glance down the carpeted hallway (all clear), then return to her. “I might go down as Worst Interviewee.”
“You can’t. That’s my spot.”
I laugh. “I’d give it to you, but I don’t know how to get out of it yet.”
She curls an arm around my waist, and I immediately unpocket my hands. About to pull Sulli into a warm hug that I’ve been craving.
But she abruptly disconnects from me. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” She whirls around, hiding.
Not from me.
Life-or-death alarm isn’t pricking my instincts.
