Catch Twenty-Two (Westover Prep 2)

We just left her appointment with her doctor. We only just found out what we were having, and the second the sonographer told us we were having a boy, I couldn’t help but close my eyes and hope that my dad was just as happy as I was with the news.

“You wanted a little girl,” I whisper.

Her eyes look up finding mine, and there’s something there that’s been missing, something that I’ve been praying would eventually brighten her sad eyes.

“I love you,” she whispers, and even though I cherish hearing those words finally fall from her lips, I knew she felt that way before her mouth even opened.

Her walls are down. I’ve managed over the last couple of weeks to crush any doubt that she had built up to keep me away.

“Frankie,” I whisper as I cup her cheeks. “I love you, too.”

My heart is pounding in my chest as I look into her eyes. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and she’s finally mine.

She blinks, a lone tear running down her cheek as I lean over and press my lips to hers. The kiss isn’t sexual, but still filled with passion. It doesn’t hint at the millions of things we want to do to each other. It’s filled with love and the prospect of the future we’re building with each other.

“I’m staying with you tonight,” she says when I pull away.

“Of course you are,” I say with a smile.

“I want to be with you,” she says before her teeth dig into her bottom lip.

“We’re together.” I press another tender kiss to her lips. “Always.”

“Be. With. You,” she repeats slowly.

Her meaning hits me right below the belt, and I have to clear my throat before suggesting that we head back to my place and get an early jump on those plans. I’ve wanted her every second of every day, but I’ve kept those feelings separate while trying to gain her trust.

“Let’s get this over with,” I tell her, hastily unbuckling my seat belt and climbing out of my truck.

She’s laughing at my craziness when I open her door and pull her out of the vehicle, but it doesn’t last long.

By the time we’re in the kitchen with both of her parents, neither one of us are in a joyous mood any longer.

“Mom, Dad,” Frankie begins, and I clasp her hand in solidarity. “We have something to tell you.”

Mr. Young’s eyes narrow at our joined hands, and Mrs. Young barely turns around to pay us any attention. Even while in the same room, the woman is an absentee parent.

“I told you two, no hanky-panky,” her dad says in a low, even tone.

“It’s a little too late now, don’t you think, Paul?” Mrs. Young finally turns around to face us, a full glass of tea in her hands. She raises an eyebrow at her husband, who just looks defeated.

He flops back in the high-back stool he’s sitting on.

“Go ahead,” he urges with little emotion. “Tell us what you did and how you plan to fix it.”

Frankie stiffens beside me, and just by the grip she has on my hand I know that she can tell that they already know.

“Y-you know?” Frankie stammers.

“That you’re pregnant?” her mom says with a scoff. “Of course we do.”

Her dad’s finger taps on a stack of papers on the countertop in front of him. “Paper trail.”

“At least you’re being responsible and keeping your doctor appointments,” her mom says on a sigh.

“And you plan on sticking around?” Mr. Young asks as he looks up at me.

Frankie’s hand is trembling in mine, and I think it’s more anger than fear. This is the weirdest conversation I think I’ve ever had. I expected this man to drag me out of his house by the scruff of my neck and beat the crap out of me on the front lawn, yet he’s just sitting there, cool as a cucumber, waiting for me to answer his ridiculous question.

“Yes, sir. I love your daughter. Having a baby so young isn’t ideal, but I’m—”

“Going to marry my daughter immediately,” her mother interrupts.

Frankie chokes, making a sputtering sound as she turns to face her mom. “What? Married? We’re only eighteen.”

“Yet, you’re adult enough to get pregnant,” her dad interjects. “I think it’s the best thing.”

Without another word, Frankie tugs on my hand, dragging me toward the front door.

“Where do you think you’re going, Frances?” her mom says to our backs. “I didn’t give you permission to leave.”

“Permission?” Frankie says as she spins back around. “I don’t need your permission. I’m a pregnant adult who’s getting married soon, aren’t I? I’m staying the night with my fiancé.”

It’s my turn to sputter as she drags me from the house, but it’s too cold to have any sort of serious conversation right outside in the open, so I help her inside my truck, finding it hard to keep the grin off my face when I notice her red cheeks and angry eyes.