Ironically, it helps me be ready too. “I’m pregnant.”
It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, and it feels . . . good. Scary, but good.
Ace says nothing, and when I look up again, he’s looking at me in total shock. “You’re . . .?”
“Yeah.”
“Uhm, congratulations?” he stammers, his brows knit together.
“Is that a question?” I ask, my feathers ruffled. I don’t know what response I expected, maybe party streamers and hugs? But that’s not what Ace is giving me. At all.
Ace throws his hands wide. “You tell me. I’m trying to read you, Tiff. But you’re smiling and crying at the same time. Am I supposed to be happy or kill someone?”
That helps immensely. It’s not that Ace is worried, it’s that he’s on my side, no matter what. He truly has my back, but I might be sending some mixed signals here.
My smile grows, and he looks relieved, matching mine with a smile of his own. “That’s better. Congratulations, Sis!” He comes over, hugging me tightly. That’s more what I expected, and I feel better. “Don’t scare me like that. I wouldn’t do well in prison. I’m too pretty.”
I laugh even though tears are spilling now.
“Are you okay?” Ace asks.
“Yes, this keeps happening,” I say, gesturing to my leaking eyes. “I don’t know why.”
“Don’t get mad, because I know this is something you should never say to a woman, but I think it’s because of a little thing called hormones.”
I sniffle and stick my tongue out at him like we did when we were kids. “Thanks, asshole.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” I push at him, but the solid fucker doesn’t move an inch. “What’d Daniel say?”
My good humor evaporates, my smile dissolving.
Ace takes it completely wrong, though. “Oh, shit, he’s the father, right?”
I swat at his chest. I might not be able to move him, but I can still inflict a little damage. “Of course he is! What kind of question is that?”
The dogs in the back, seeing me swat at Ace, think we’re playing without them and start barking loudly. Winston gets excited by the noise and action and starts humping Ace’s leg. Ace cries out, though he’s laughing too. “Yehrt!” He makes that weird noise that all the dogs respond to, and it gets quieter.
My reprieve over, Ace asks again, “What’d Daniel say?”
My lips purse as I look at Ace in embarrassment. “I, uh . . . I haven’t told him yet.”
Ace whistles softly, “Damn, girl.” But then he reaches out, taking my hand. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Ace hugs me again. “For letting me be the one to take care of you for once. Now, like you did for me . . . talk.”
For the next few minutes, I do. I start pacing again, Winston back at my side for every step, though I’m not sure if he’s heeling so much as stalking me like a horndog now. Ace slams chicken strip after chicken strip. I don’t mind. I only wanted the fries, anyway.
And I tell him everything.
How this wasn’t planned.
How I don’t want Daniel to think I’m trapping him.
“Do you think he would?”
I shrug. “I don’t think so. But I have no idea. Does he even want to be a father again? He’s already a grandfather.”
“That’s all about Daniel,” Ace says, “but I suspect you’re worrying needlessly. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Now, the big question is, what do you want? How do you feel?”
“Truth?” I ask, and he nods. I sit down at the counter next to him, thinking. “I’m freaked out. Excited. Worried. Happy. Scared. It’s a whole emotional gumbo in here.” I gesture to my body.
“Sounds about right,” Ace says. “I mean, I’m in a different stew, but I smell what you’re cookin’. Marriage is scary too.”
All at once, I shove another bundle of fries into my mouth. They’re cold and gross now, but I chew and swallow them anyway. “Worst of all, all these nerves have me stress eating like hell. I’ve gone through two boxes of cheese crackers, but that’s like, seventy-five percent of my food intake. Aren’t mothers supposed to eat healthy stuff? I’m eating like shit, and—”
“And you’re doing fine,” Ace says calmly, counterbalancing my impending panic attack as I remember the milkshake I had for breakfast, telling myself that it was sort of like a fruit smoothie if it had strawberries in it. “And you’re going to do fine. Hell, you’re going to be one of those mother of the year types because you’re loving and caring but take no shit. You think a kid raised by you is going to end up being a mopey punk ass like I was for so long?”
“I . . . you had good reason,” I remind him. Remembering that the whole thing that set off his downward spiral was that the baby he’d thought was his hadn’t been, I say, “You’re going to be a fantastic uncle too.”