Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

There’s a pause before Molly groans. “Oh jeez.”

What! I’m sorry I suck at telling my older brother I AM PREGNANT!

He is going to SHIT HIMSELF.

Yes, I’m shouting—at least in my head I am.

Freaking.

Out.

This is it. He knows something’s up, and now I have to spill my guts out. Thank God Molly is here because no way would I have the courage otherwise.

Not that I have any to begin with, but her presence helps.

“Why can’t you eat raw sushi?” Tripp hasn’t looked up at me yet, can’t see that I’ve picked apart my dinner, setting aside all the things I can’t stomach. “Eat something else then.”

“Yeah, True, why can’t you eat raw sushi?”

Shit, this is not going the way I planned.

What I should have done is gotten some pickles and ice cream or something and let him guess.

He never would have guessed. It would have gone straight over his head…

Balloons with babies on them? A banner announcing ‘Congrats, you’re going to be an uncle!?!’

Cake.

A cake would have been good.

Tripp likes cake.

“You’re staring again.” He holds out his plate, offering me a bite. “I hogged all the eel—did you want?”

No I don’t want eel!

I’m having a baby!

“Why do you look like you’re going to puke? Are you sick? You look sick.”

“I…”

Molly heaves another sigh. “I think your sister has something she wants to tell you.”

My brother sets down his chopsticks as if sensing the tone in the room has gotten serious, hands now folded in his lap, all attention on me.

Wow. He’s intense.

Patient.

Doesn’t say anything or ask me any questions. Just waits.

It’s jarring and disarming and has me squirming in the spot where I’ve been sitting. Except I can’t sit anymore. Nervous energy has me rising and walking to the fridge, cracking it open to reach in for a bottle of water.

I twist the top off and chug.

“You already have a water.” Tripp’s voice is quiet and not at all accusing.

Bottle pressed to my mouth, my eyes find my other water bottle on the counter at my place setting, barely touched and most likely lukewarm.

Molly’s eyes look sad, feeling a bit sorry for me as I helplessly flail around, searching for the words to tell my brother my latest news.

“This isn’t…I don’t know how…” to tell you what I’m about to tell you. I don’t want you to judge me or think less of me or be mad. At me. “I know I’ve always been your little sister, but I’m not a little girl anymore and I’m pregnant and there’s a chance I’m going to have a little girl seven months from now, too.” The words come out in one breath, one run-on sentence, one rushed confession. Hands clutch the water bottle, almost crushing it between my fingers.

“Or a boy.”

My brother barely moves, rigid and ramrod straight on the barstool in his kitchen; in my mind, if he was holding chopsticks, they would be suspended in midair, sushi roll dropping to his plate on the counter with a plop.

No one moves.

No one dares, not even Tripp.

Not even Chewy, smart dog.

I said what I said and I’m afraid to say more. If there were a clock ticking in the house, we’d be able to hear it. If there were a mouse lurking about, we’d hear it, too.

Somewhere outside, a delivery truck drives by, the metal panel in the street making that familiar clanging sound it makes when a vehicle passes over it, breaking up the noiseless timbre in the air.

Chewy whines, pawing my leg.

Molly looks at me again, sympathy shining in her eyes.

I’ve not seen my brother at a loss for words since…well. Never. Not even when our grandmother died and he was asked to speak at her funeral, not when his most beloved family pet Ranger died. Not when he didn’t get an offer to play ball at his first choice of universities.

Tripp is simply unflappable.

Or so I thought.

“You’re…” His eyes do a quick scan of my body, finding no bump.

“Nine weeks.” My voice is raspy and filled with emotion.

“I didn’t realize you were seeing anyone.”

Ha. If this is his polite way of asking who the father is, he’s doing a fantastic job hiding his emotions—only his flared nostrils are giving him away.

“I’m not.”

Tripp blinks, so hard I’m able to count and keep track. Once. Twice.

Three times.

“Did you…go to one of those…places?”

My right eyebrow arches. “Are you asking if I was artificially inseminated?”

He shrugs, noncommittal.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something snarky, my sense of humor returning after being dormant for two months. What would he say if I retorted with a sassy, ‘I was inseminated, that’s really all you need to know.’

I cut him some slack though, the debris from the bomb I just set off falling to the ground in tiers. Shock. Awe. Silence. Acceptance.

I can see that he is not going to lose his mind, or his temper.