Page 34 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

T here’s a convex curve to my stomach when I turn to the left. Barely a bump, but nearly noticeable. I’m sixteen weeks pregnant, and I’m starting to show.

I grab my phone and snap a photo, smiling as I zoom in on the small swell. My thumb hovers over the Text icon.

Is it weird to send Kit this?

Things have been off between us since the ultrasound. Stiff. Aside from his weekly fruit texts—we’re up to an avocado—we haven’t had a single conversation related to the baby. Or discussed anything non-work-related.

And I miss it.

I miss … him.

My awkward coffee date with Perry wasn’t worth this tension.

I’m not even sure you could classify our brief meetup as a date.

We mainly talked about our favorite spots in Chicago, reminiscing about living there.

It lasted less than an hour, and he hugged me goodbye.

The commute from Manhattan to Brooklyn and back likely took longer than he spent with me.

I drop my dress and toss my phone on the mattress with a huff, watching it bounce twice. Why did Kit have to be looking at my phone when Perry texted? Things went so well during the ultrasound, and then after …

I unzip my suitcase and rummage through its contents until I find the hardback I packed. Thankfully, the white envelope didn’t slip out during the train ride. It’s perfectly preserved on the title page without a single crease.

My mom is standing in the kitchen, chopping celery for the stuffing and listening to NPR. Jane is sprawled on the living room rug, painting her nails and watching the parade. And my dad … no sign of him.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask, heading into the kitchen and propping a hip against the butcher-block counter.

My mom glances up from the cutting board. “He’s walking Newton.”

“Oh.”

I scan her serene expression as she continues chopping.

I can’t tell if she knows. I’ve never been able to tell if she knows.

Having been cheated on myself, I can confirm that the women’s intuition thing doesn’t exist. Or if it does, I didn’t have it.

I wish someone had told me about Isaac’s philandering so I didn’t have to see it for myself.

But this is different. This isn’t a friend; it’s my mom.

If she doesn’t know, I don’t want to be the one who tells her.

I fiddle with the stiff edge of the envelope for a few seconds, watching her prep for dinner, then hold it out. “Well, this is for you guys.”

One of her eyebrows lifts as my mom dries her hands on the brown gingham towel on the counter. She lifts the flap and inspects the contents.

At first, her expression doesn’t change. It shifts, bit by bit, as she pulls the sonogram out. Her lips part, and her eyes mist. “Oh my,” she says softly, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “Oh my,” she repeats, swiping a finger beneath her left eye.

It’s the first time I’ve seen my mom cry since we had to put down Newton’s predecessor, Einstein, when I was a junior in high school.

I clear my throat to get rid of the lump, recalling the same surreal moment of seeing my child for the first time. “He—or she—isn’t very big. But you can sort of see its face, I think, right there ?” I point to the spot the tech indicated during the ultrasound, which looks like a gray blob to me.

My mom sniffles, reaching for the dish towel and dabbing at her nose.

“I cried too,” I admit. “At the ultrasound. We heard the heartbeat, and …” I swallow hard when my mom’s attention jumps from the photo to me.

“We?”

I haven’t made a paternity announcement to my parents yet. I’ve been putting it off, honestly, hoping our relationship would magically become easier to explain before the conversation needed to take place.

“Yeah. We. The father is involved.”

“How involved?”

For some reason, the mural Kit is determined to paint in his professionally decorated guest room is what pops into my head first. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t fit with the immature playboy puzzle.

I thought Kit’s involvement was too much to expect.

It never occurred to me he’d be excited about the prospect of parenthood.

I feel guilty for misjudging him, and it comes through in my confident, “Very.”

“Mom, is there more of that cheese you got at—what’s that?” Jane enters the kitchen, carrying a cloud of chemicals with her.

I cough and walk over to the sink to crack the window above it. Then start breathing through my nose, same as I have to do on the subway. Pretty sure I could out-sniff a bloodhound. At least, that’s how it feels.

A gust of clean, cold air blows through the opening, and I inhale deeply.

“It’s your sister’s sonogram,” Mom answers.

“Ooh, let me see!” Jane reaches for it eagerly.

“Not with wet nails, Jane!”

“They’re basically dry,” my sister retorts.

“They don’t smell like they’re almost dry,” I mutter.

“It’s cute,” my sister states, peering over Mom’s shoulder as she frantically wiggles her fingers. “I think. Kinda hard to tell yet. But with that gene pool …” She sighs dreamily.

I shoot her a shut up look that my mom catches.

“What gene pool? Jane knows the father? Is he a student at Yale?”

Sorry , Jane mouths .

I swore her to secrecy during my last trip home, but I knew that couldn’t last forever. My mom was about to ask the question anyway, as soon as I let that we slip.

“No,” I answer. “Well, not anymore. It’s, uh, Kit Kensington?” That last sentence comes out like a question, even though it’s not really one. I ordered a paternity test so I was prepared for the Kensingtons’ lawyers with proof that I wasn’t a gold digger, not because I had any doubts.

Jane flashes me an encouraging thumbs-up.

My mom blinks rapidly.

“Kit Kensington,” I prompt when she says nothing. “You met him my freshman year, during move-in. He’s Lili’s brother.”

“Smells good in here, Mandy.”

I glance at the doorway. My dad’s returned, bent over, unclipping Newton’s leash from his collar.

“Did you know?” Mom asks Dad.

“Know what?” he replies, hanging the leash up on a hook.

“That Collins is having a child with her boss ?”

I swallow hard. I guess she knows exactly who Kit Kensington is. Knows my direct superior, not just the company I work at. I was hoping to ease into that part a little more. Emphasize the I’m friends with his sister part before revealing the whole I work for him bit.

Embarrassment prickles in my chest. “He wasn’t my boss when we—” I clear my throat, losing some steam when I realize I’m treading dangerously close to revealing details about my sex life to my parents.

“It sounds bad, but nothing unprofessional took place. It was unfortunate timing, is all. I’m looking for a new job. He won’t be my boss for much longer.”

I hope , I add silently. I didn’t get the paralegal position I’d applied to last month. Or any other jobs I’ve pursued. But mentioning that now isn’t going to reassure anyone.

“Oh, Collins. You’re changing jobs again ?”

The way my mom says again , you’d think I was swapping out careers on a weekly basis.

My parents were so relieved when I told them I was double majoring in college, happy I’d have a fallback career if—when—music wasn’t paying the bills.

I prided myself on not worrying them, and now it feels like it’s all I’m doing.

“Lots of people change jobs in their twenties, Mom,” Jane says. “It’s like dating, but for a career. How many people marry the first person they go out with?”

My parents exchange a look.

They did, which I used to think was sweet. Now that I’m older and far more jaded and aware of mistakes my father has made, I don’t.

“Also, Kit’s a billionaire ,” Jane continues. “Linny won’t have to worry about money. She could play piano again.”

I suck in another deep breath of fall air. All the heat in the kitchen is getting sucked out the open window, which would ordinarily make my frugal father fret. But I’m the only one who seems to notice the dropping temperature in the room.

Jane is trying to help. She’s trying to spin this into a fairy tale.

But I know, even before I see my mom’s pursed lips and my dad’s furrowed forehead, that was the wrong argument.

Our parents raised us to be independent and proud, not reliant.

To work for what we received. The net worth of my baby daddy isn’t an important factor in their minds.

Mom focuses on me. “If you’re leaving your job, you should reconsider moving home.”

“I’m not moving home,” I state. “I like living in New York. And it’s where Kit lives. He chose to be involved, and I’m not going to make that harder than it needs to be.”

“Have you discussed custody?” my dad asks somberly.

“Not … specifics,” I admit.

Another loaded look is exchanged between my parents.

I glance at the sonogram my mom is still holding.

I know they have my best interests at heart. That their doubts are rooted in a place of love and concern. But their lack of confidence—in my ability to manage this situation and in my relationship with Kit—stings.

“Do you need help with the food, Mom?” Jane asks, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I’m starving.”

“Right. The cheese.” Mom walks over to the fridge, grabbing an unused magnet off the steel surface and using it to affix the sonogram.

She opens the door next, removing a plastic package and passing it to Jane.

“Don’t ruin your appetite. I just have to finish the stuffing.

Everything will be ready in another hour. ”

Jane shoots me a half-apologetic, half-encouraging look, then scurries out of the kitchen with her snack.

My mom heads back to her cutting board. Dad’s still standing in the doorway, uncertain.

“I’d like to meet him, Collins,” Mom tells me as she resumes chopping. “ Re meet him, rather.”

“Okay,” I say.

My father moves then, heading over to the pile of papers stacked at the far end of the kitchen table. He hunts through the stack, ripping the bottom off a bill and then writing something on it. He folds it in half, walks over to the sink, and hands it to me.

“John Williams is a good friend. He’s the dean of the law school. If you need an attorney, you call him. Number should be on the school website.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Absurdly, I feel the hot prick of tears start to form.

He’s not telling me to call. Not chastising my choices.

Not checking out either. It’s been a long time since I felt like I had that sort of support.

It’s been a long time since I confided in my parents too.

Since I let them see the struggle instead of showing off the solution.

He nods. “Anything else your mother or I can do, you let us know.”

“I will.”

“And close that window, or the next propane bill will be astronomical.”

He heads toward the living room, and I smile.