Page 55 of Pregnant By the Playboy

“You asked me to marry you when I told you I was pregnant. Now you just want a date?”

“Well, you weren’t happy with the proposal. You—quite reasonably—pointed out that we hardly knew each other, so let’s spend more time together. A date.”

I hesitate. “Why haven’t you had a girlfriend since university?”

“For many years, I had no time. My company was my life.”

“Which was your choice.”

“True. I’m not good at balance, which is why I burnt out. Badly.”

Sometimes it’s hard for me to picture Vince’s former life, given his playboy image. But I can see it now, can imagine his utter devotion to his work.

I can imagine him burning out, too, and there’s an ache in my chest.

“Then I sold it,” he says, “and I was suddenly free. But at that point, it didn’t feel like a choice. I had to change. I just couldn’t continue.”

“So that’s when you went all-out on with your life of leisure.”

“Life of leisure. Yeah.” He pauses. “A relationship didn’t appeal to me. Too much commitment. But also...the past few years have been a mess of burn-out and depression. I wasn’t in a good place.”

I squeeze his hand.

“Now,” he says, “I’m doing better and I do want the commitment. I want you and our baby together. That’s what matters to me now.”

“You can be a dedicated father without being with the mother of your child.”

“Yes, but I want you, too. I told you that I could just give you a weekend, but it was the best weekend of my life, truly.”

“Mm-hmm. That’s why you made no effort to contact me.”

“It’s what I know,” he says apologetically, “but I’m trying, Marissa. I want to kiss you when we wake up in the middle of the night to the baby’s cries. I want to get matcha double fromage cheesecake for you even when you don’t have pregnancy cravings. Let’s go on a date and see how it goes, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper. “Next Friday?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

He kisses me, and I lean against him.

I’m tired. Maybe from everything we’ve just said to each other about his burn-out, and my dad, and General Bloopy. I’m probably also going into some kind of food coma after all the sausages, bakeapple jam, cheese, and chocolate cake.

Vince does indeed treat me well, and I feel like I understand him better now.

I don’t love him. I’m not ready to marry him.

But I’ve started to feel open to the idea of a relationship. I don’t think it would be a good idea to jump into bed together just yet, though.

Bed. Mmm. What a lovely thought.

As if reading my mind—or maybe just noticing that my eyelids are closing—Vince gathers me in his arms and carries me into the bedroom.

I do want to sleep, but first...

I pick up a faded photo from my night table. The photo that has been resting on my night table for as long as I remember, in all the different places I’ve lived.

“That’s my dad,” I say.

It was the eighties, and he’s wearing glasses that seem woefully uncool now. Or maybe they’ve become cool again—I’m not an expert on these things. Carrie would know.