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James snags Mom’s phone, keying in her passcode—his birth year and mine—before presumably pulling up whatever article details my latest antics. “Hey, you knocked someone up again.”
It says a lot, how not one person flinches. “Great,” my mother drawls. “Who is it this time?”
One second, James is laughing. The next, he’s not. His face pinches together, squinting at his phone as he reads whatever someone’s made up this time.
“What? Is it twins? Triplets? No, let me guess, it’s another eighteen-year-old claiming I’m their mother’s highschool sweetheart.”
“It’s—” he stutters, swallowing hard. Slow and slightly terrifying—James is not easily shocked—my brother meets my gaze, a wince creasing his features. “It says it’s Sunday Lane.”
15
SUNDAY
An incessantly ringingdoorbell stirs me to consciousness.
Pickle meows his protest as I push myself upright, displacing his cozy nap spot on my chest. Rolling out the crick in my neck, I swear beneath my breath. I should’ve told Willow to wake me up before she left to collect August from batting practice. I’m freaking narcoleptic lately, my little fetus draining the energy from me.
Rising from the sofa, I stretch and yawn my way to the front door, still half-asleep when I open it. “Hey,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes to clear the sleep from them, to ensure it is, in fact, Cass Morgan darkening my doorstep once again. “What’re you doing here?”
In my only recently awake state, I take a minute to realize something is wrong. To notice too long goes without Cass replying. That his face is eerily blank, his hands posted on his hips, his back against the opposite wall, like he rang the bell before getting as far away as possible. He’s glistening—I don’t think he does something as human assweat—like he ran here, dressed in loose shorts and a bicep-forearm-all-the-best-parts-of-the-male-arm-bearing tank that also—fuck my hormonal life—crops just enough to flash so much glorious abdomen.
Cass does not stare at me the way I stare—leer—at him. He scans me from head to toe but it’s… searching. Accusing. When his gaze lingers on my stomach, I wonder if he can see it drop.
“TMZ posted the funniest thing today,” he says, voice low and raspy and so very off.
Fuck, a little voice in my head whispers.You are so fucked.
Cass straightens. Crosses the hall with two long strides. Towers over me, eyes too dark to read. “Apparently, I got a girl pregnant.”
A girl. Notyou. Just a girl. It feels like a way out, a loophole, and I don’t know if it’s unfounded confidence or foolishness or pure fucking panic that compels me to play oblivious. “Oh?”
Disappointment flashes across his features.
I imagine guilt floods mine. “Cass, I-”
“It’s fucking true, isn’t it? You’re pregnant?”
What can I do but nod?
And what do I get for my honesty?
Devastation.
Utter devastation in the form of a man.
“Jesus Christ, Sunday.” Big, shaky palms go to the back of his head, dark eyes rolling towards the ceiling, a full mouth opening in a heavy exhale. “What the fuck?”
“Can we talk about this inside?” The hallway of my apartment building was so not where I wanted to do this. I was gonna invite him over. Bake him cinnamon rolls. Wear something other than threadbare pajamas. Lay everything out on the table, have a real, civilized, adult discussion. It was not supposed to happen like this. “Please?”
I almost think he’s gonna say no. His lips press together tight, head jerking like it’s about to shake. But then, he looks at me. Something changes. Maybe the desperation pouring off me softens him up.
It lasts all of five seconds. He crosses the threshold and he snaps, turning on me before I can even shut the door, his voice close enough to a yell to make me flinch. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
Indignation tickles my spine. “Because I thought you’d take it badly. Thank God I was wrong.”
“Don’t do that. I found out I’m having a kid through a fucking gossip column. I’m allowed to react.”
“You’re not allowed to yell at me.”
