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Ziggy

Yep.

That went as poorly as I expected it to.

“Ziggy, I just don’t understand.” Mom’s wringing her hands. She’s literally wringing her hands. Who does that? “You knew you weren’t supposed to fraternize with the players.”

We’re in the parking lot.

Holt’s car is gone.

Everyone else’s is still here because the banquet must go on.

Without the team captain.

With most of the guys on the team completely grim-faced.

And I’d expect the sponsors and distinguished guests inside aren’t entirely sure what’s happening either.

I don’t bother telling Mom the whole story.

What’s the point?

“Why not?” I say instead. “Why can’t I? He’s an adult. I’m an adult. We made an adult decision to see each other. And that should be the end of the discussion.”

“Sweetheart, you’re in a delicate position, and your hormones?—”

“Do not tell me that I’m in no position to decide that I want to date just because I’m pregnant. You didn’t have any problem with the idea of me dropping thousands and thousands of dollars on a house while I’m hormonal, but spending time with someone who likes and respects me is too far? Would you like to lock me in a room and make sure that I don’t see anything sad on TV or hear any shocking news and watch over my delicate constitution too? Or maybe, Ms. It’s Fine To Set My Pregnant Daughter Up With Kyle , you’re being an ass about me making my own decisions.”

I feel like a brat. Like I’m back in puberty, unable to control my mouth.

But I didn’t do anything wrong.

We didn’t do anything wrong.

Mom blows out a sigh.

I’m very, very familiar with that sigh.

It’s a sigh I heard many times when I was in puberty.

Hormonal. Moody. Unpredictable.

Why do I feel like a teenage asshole ?

“I’m going home,” I tell Mom. “We can talk later, but I’m not doing this tonight.”

“I already texted the housekeeper to get your bedroom ready?—”

“ My home, Mom. My home.”

She eyes me. “Will…he…be there?”

I don’t answer, but I do glare at her .

Ziggy’s such a cunt. She thinks she’s better than everyone else. And did you hear? Now, she cut her mother out of her life. Her MOTHER. The woman offered to buy her a house, and that wasn’t good enough. She offered to pay for furniture, and that wasn’t good enough. Nothing’s ever good enough for Ziggy. She’s such a stuck-up cunt .

Tears burn my eyes as the ghost of Abby Nora’s voice haunts me. “Is it really that wrong for me to want to make it on my own two feet, and to make my own decisions and mistakes and choices?”

Mom blinks too.

She shakes her head. “No. It’s not wrong. It’s what I taught you to do.”

“I love him,” I whisper. “If you make me choose?—”

I cut myself off as she sucks in a breath.

“Okay. Okay.” She pats my shoulder, then squeezes my arm. “You…go home. We’ll talk tomorrow. After we’ve all calmed down.”

I have to pull over two blocks from the banquet hall because my vision is too blurry to drive. I pull up my phone and text Holt.

Me: I’m coming home .

Reply bubbles pop up instantly, and then?—

Holt: I’m here. And I’m sorry.

I finally get myself together enough to drive the rest of the way home, but I don’t make it inside before I’m crying again.

Holt opens the door for me like he’s been watching for me.

I stumble inside to an alarmed bark from Jessica, and then he’s wrapping me in his arms while the dog dances around us, panting and snuffling, and it should make me feel better, but I can’t stop crying.

“He hit you,” I sob.

“Taken a lot worse,” he murmurs. “I’m okay.”

“He shouldn’t— hic! —have hit— hic! —you.”

Dammit.

Dammit.

Not the hiccups.

Jessica howls.

“Come. Sit.”

When I don’t move from clinging to him, Holt shifts, and then I’m in his arms, feet off the floor.

“Your— hic! —foot,” I gasp.

He sits on the couch with me in his lap, and then Jessica’s crawling all over both of us too, grunting in my face.

“She’ll be okay.” Holt rubs the dog’s head. “Settle down. Don’t step on the baby or you’ll have to get off.”

She snorts at him with a fraction of her normal heat.

“I shouldn’t— hic! —have gone— hic! —outside,” I say. “I shouldn’t— hic! —have taken— hic! —the job.”

“I should’ve sent Fletcher and Silas to find you.”

He’s so calm.

So calm.

“Why— hic! —aren’t you— hic! —freaking out?”

He threads his fingers through my hair and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Because you’re here. This sucks, Zig. It fucking sucks. But we’ll get through it. You’re here. I’m here. Jessica’s here. We’ve got this.”

I wish I had even the smallest bit of his confidence .

I wish I didn’t think he was putting on a brave face for me.

“He was so mad,” I whisper.

I’ve honestly never seen my stepfather that angry.

Holt strokes my neck. “For the rest of the night, that’s a him problem. Not an us problem.”

But it’s a tomorrow problem.

My hiccups gradually slow. Jessica splays across my legs, panting while I pet her. And Holt holds me.

Is he calm because he’s accepted this is over?

Or is he calm because he knows we can make this work?

Is he quitting rugby?

Will he get traded?

Will I have to decide if I want to follow him?

And what about the house?

What will happen to Caden’s house?

My handbag buzzes.

Someone’s calling or texting me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and snuggle closer to Holt, but when the buzzing doesn’t stop, I ask him to hand me my phone, then hold it so we can both see the wall of texts from Miranda.

Miranda: I love you.

Miranda: I’m so sorry my dad is being an asshole. I tried to talk to him and now I’m on his shit list too.

Miranda: This is the most awkward awards banquet I’ve ever been at. Everyone’s eating cheesecake like it’s funeral cheesecake. Not a single player has smiled while taking an award. They’re all looking at Dad like he’s a monster .

Miranda: He’ll calm down. He has to. I’ve never seen him mad like this, but it can’t be the first time. Which means he’ll calm down. There’s not really another option.

Miranda: The dude your mom brought for me just asked me if there’s a gas leak in the building and I think I’m going to stand up and yell FIRE just to break the tension and get everyone out of here.

Miranda: Goldie says to tell you that you can call her anytime. Holt can too. Are you there with him? I hope so. He’s a good guy. Waaaaay better than Fletcher, and if someone as amazing as Goldie Collins can fall in love with Fletcher Huxley and actively believe that he’s worthy of forever with her, then there’s zero reason for Dad to have any objections about Holt.

Miranda: Fletcher just got an award for team commitment and he accepted it with a fart joke and then called his future brother-in-law a fuckwanker. RIGHT THERE. ON STAGE. Gotta hand it to the guy—he knows how to break tension and cause a scene.

Miranda: Are you okay? Are you home? Please tell me you’re okay. I just need to know you made it home safely, or that you’re safe somewhere. This is going to be okay, I promise. I hope. Just please—please let me know you’re okay.

Miranda: I love you .

I text her back that I’m home, I’m safe, I love her too, and that I’ll be okay.

The little bubbles in my belly tell me that Tater Tot’s happy and safe and sound .

That’s good.

That’s reason enough for me to be okay.

Jessica lays her head down, over the edge of my leg, and lets out a long, happy sigh.

Holt kisses my forehead again. His chest rises and falls against me as he holds me.

I am.

I’m home .

I’m safe .

And everything I want and need to feel at home and safe is everything that my parents object to.

“I just don’t understand why,” I whisper to Holt. “Who can object to you? Why is he being such a stubborn ass about this?”

He clears his throat. “It’s possible…if he’d found out while we were both…fully clothed with our hands to ourselves…that he would’ve taken it better.”

I contemplate that for a second.

Then I shake my head. “Honestly? I don’t think he would’ve.”

Holt tightens his arms around me. “Maybe a little.”

“There might’ve been less yelling, but the sentiment would’ve been the same.”

“Everything will look better in the morning.”

I hope he’s right.

I don’t think he is, but if he can hope, then so can I.