Page 23 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

T he silver station wagon is waiting alongside the curb when I walk out of the automatic doors. My train ran ten minutes behind, so it’s less surprising that he’s on time for once.

It’s chillier in New Haven than I was expecting, fall’s crispness creeping into the evening air. I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pocket as I start toward the Volvo.

I was dreading this trip home before I knew the news I’d need to share. After my awful conversation with Kit earlier, Jane is the only reason I didn’t cancel this visit to curl up in bed all weekend.

I open the trunk at the same moment the driver’s door creaks open. I dump my duffel bag next to the milk crate, where my dad stores the papers that won’t fit in his briefcase, and shut the trunk a little harder than necessary. The entire frame of the ancient station wagon shakes from the impact.

“Hello, Collins.”

“Hi, Dad.” I shove my hands back into my pocket before turning to face him.

My father isn’t a big man. He’s tall, over six feet, but slender instead of stocky. He wears tweed suits that evoke his Irish ancestry and horn-rimmed glasses, which are constantly at risk of slipping down his nose.

I watch him appraise the firm set of my shoulders; he looks like he deliberates giving me a hug and decides against an embrace.

Inside my pockets, my hands curl into fists. Fingernails dig into my palms, prompting a sharp burst of pain.

What he did is bad enough. But the way he’s never questioned the distance between us, never made any attempt to bridge the gap I initiated? That betrayal cuts even deeper.

“Good trip?” My father’s voice is the one thing that doesn’t match his unassuming appearance. It’s rich and deep and booming, and it commands attention. A tone you’d expect from an army captain, not a chemistry professor.

“It was fine,” I answer.

Two hours I spent staring out the window, wondering if I should move to Boston or Philadelphia. I like living in a city, and Chicago’s out for obvious reasons.

He nods once, then folds his tall frame back into the driver’s seat. Symphony No. 5 is trickling out of the speakers, courtesy of the cassette player. The familiar melody and the familiar ripped seat relax me some despite the awkwardness humming in the air.

We used to talk. About music and books and what was happening in my life—school or friends or boys.

Outside of a lecture hall, my father is more of a listener than a speaker.

But he was always an excellent sounding board when I needed to vent.

And then that awful day happened, and I haven’t known what to say to him since.

“I bought some grapefruit juice yesterday,” is his attempt at conversation.

Mom and Jane prefer orange juice, so my dad only buys grapefruit juice when I’m visiting.

I open my mouth to say, Thanks , but, “I’m pregnant,” spills out instead.

To my dad’s credit, the car only lurches a little. He hits the brakes too hard, a good foot from the white line that signals the Stop sign. He clears his throat and coasts a few more inches before stopping in the correct spot.

“Wow. That’s … that’s big.”

My, “Yeah,” is flat.

At least he said something . I was half expecting him to go mute, same as Kit.

Under any other circumstances—circumstances that didn’t point at me becoming a single parent—I would have felt proud of shocking Kit Kensington into silence. I’d never seen him speechless before.

The car behind us honks. We’ve been at the Stop sign for a lot longer than the requisite three seconds, holding up traffic.

My dad glances in the rearview mirror and sighs like he’s disappointed by their impatience before he starts driving again.

Or more likely, he’s disappointed in me .

Aside from the Beethoven playing, the station wagon is silent. My dad seems to have given up on conversation after my announcement. He could have taken the confirmation that I wasn’t a virgin worse, I suppose.

A few blocks later, he breaks the silence again. “Have you been feeling okay? Your mom got pretty sick with you girls.”

“I’ve felt better,” I answer honestly. “But I’m fine.”

More silence follows.

The first time I got my period, my mom was out of town at a conference.

I thought coaching me through that experience, while Jane fretted that I was dying in the background, was the most uncomfortable I’d ever see my father.

He tends to freeze under pressure, like a startled deer in headlights.

His brain is brilliant when it comes to anything scientific, but emotions seem to require a longer processing time.

So, when we reach the end of the street, he surprises me by continuing the conversation. “I didn’t realize you were … seeing anyone.”

“I’m not.”

My father clears his throat again. Simply, I suspect, to cut through the uncomfortable silence that lingers after that admission. I’ve just confirmed the worst-case scenario—not only am I knocked up, but I’m knocked up with no support system in sight.

“So, Isaac …”

“It’s not his.”

I hear my dad’s relieved exhale loud and clear between strains of the symphony. He didn’t like Isaac. Mom and Jane weren’t crazy about him either, but my dad really didn’t like him. At least us barely speaking never allowed him an opportunity to say I told you so after we broke up.

“How is everything else going?”

“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 a great sounds exhausting.

And terrible isn’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 they are traditional.

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 feel like 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’s heights 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.

“So, I can’t drink,” I continue. “And unfortunately, I’m pretty sure eating cod is not going to end well. Lately, all I can keep down is crackers.”

“You’re … you’re pregnant ?” My mom’s voice sounds faint, fading, like she’s running out of breath.

I nod once and confirm, “Yes.”

“I—since when?”

“Uh …” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. “I’m six weeks along. So, not long. I went to the doctor on Wednesday. Found out for sure.”

My mom’s shaking her head. Tugging the strings on her apron loose, like she needs more air.

“This is … I’m just—” She fumbles for her wine and swallows a healthy sip once her fingers close around the glass.

Her ability to string together full sentences seems to have flagged for the time being.

That, or she’s hoping the less she says, the more I will.

I shrug out of my hoodie and drape it over the back of a chair. She left the oven door open, and it’s rapidly raising the kitchen temperature.

My mom’s gaze immediately falls to my stomach. “Who’s … are yo u dating someone?”