Page 63

“Fine.”
Another soft sigh. This time, I think it signifies a quiet exasperation with the number of times I’ve used that four-letter word during this conversation.
But it’s the best I can do. Summoning agreatsounds exhausting. Andterribleisn’t an option. I’m not trying to alarm anyone. Me turning up single and pregnant is going to cause enough concern. My parents aren’t religious, but theyaretraditional. I’m sure they expected marriage would predate procreation.
“Jane mentioned you’re working for Kit Kensington now.”
I glance over at my father for the first time since we started driving. It’s strange, hearing Kit’s name come out of my dad’s mouth in the car I learned to drive in. All of a sudden, he’s infiltrating every aspect of my life.
“Yeah, I am.”
My dad nods. “I had him in a couple of classes.”
“He mentioned that.”
“Smart kid.”
High praise, coming from my father.
“He has his moments,” I mutter.
It caught me off guard when Kit acted like he knew my dad, and I assumed he was exaggerating. Apparently not. Even more strange, my dad seems to like him. I wonder if their bromance will survive when—if—I do a paternity reveal.
A few minutes later, my dad pulls into the driveway of the split-level I grew up in.
I cover a yawn as I step out of the car. It’s not even nine, but I feellike I haven’t slept in years. This baby is sucking all the energy out of me.
“I’ve got it,” my dad says when I start toward the trunk.
I nod and change course, heading up the brick path that leads to the yellow front door. It opens before I can reach it, my mom shuffling outside in her pink slippers with a wide smile on her face.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hi, Mom.”
I inhale deeply as she hugs me tight. She smells like lavender; the familiar scent is comforting.
I haven’t seen my parents in person since March. My parents visited me in Chicago over Yale’s spring break, shortly before everything imploded with Isaac. Once it did, I stuck it out in Illinois for a couple more months before deciding to move to New York. I didn’t tell them about the move—let alone the breakup—until after I was already settled in Brooklyn. Accepting assistance isn’t a strength of mine.
“Come in, come in,” Mom beckons me inside. “I made your favorite.”
I glance at my dad, who’s headed up the walk with my suitcase in hand. “Great.”
My favorite meal—fish tacos—doesn’t sound the least bit appetizing right now. I nibbled on saltines during the trip here—the one food I can reliably keep down.
There’s a long list of foods I’m no longer allowed to eat. If I’m remembering correctly, cooked fish is fine. Raw is what I have to avoid. Bye-bye, sushi.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” my mom asks as I follow her into the kitchen.
I glance at the doorway trim, where eighteen years of my and Jane’sheights are marked with dated lines. “No, thanks.”
Newton stands from his favorite spot on the linoleum in front of the stove, stretches, sniffs my foot, and then wanders into the living room to flop down on his bed.
“If you change your mind, I picked up that sauvignon blanc that you liked last time. The one from that vineyard out on Cape Cod, where?—”
“I’m pregnant, Mom.”
The only reply is a clatter from the fork, which she was using to check the fish’s flakiness, falling to the counter.