Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

Constant.

Reliable.

Steadfast.

The sexiest of traits among men.

“Mateo and I—that’s his name, by the way: Mateo José—have something to tell you.”

“You’re pregnant.” Mom says it matter-of-factly, nailing it on the first try, unlike my brother, who kept guessing and guessing and getting it wrong.

It throws me completely off.

“What?”

“Is that it? Am I right?” I can see her take Dad’s hand and squeeze it. Is she happy about this?

She certainly doesn’t look or sound devastated.

“Am I right?” she repeats again when I sit here not responding, my mouth falling open a little.

“Yes, ma’am,” Mateo responds for us. “True is pregnant.”

“OH!” Mom hops up out of her seat, practically knocking it over. “Oh, did you hear that, Roger! Did you hear that! I’m going to be a grandma.” She’s practically spinning around the kitchen of their rented Florida condo. “What name do I want the baby to call me? Glamma? GanGan?”

Or, you know—Grandma?

I had no idea my mother was so extra.

Wow, she is reeling, fluttering about their kitchen, muttering and crying. When she sits back down, she’s dabbing her eyes with the end of a flip-flop-covered, terrycloth hand towel.

This is going a million percent better than I predicted, way better than I hoped.

Mateo’s hand moves from my back to my leg, giving my thigh a rewarding squeeze. See? it’s saying. You survived. They’re happy.

Roger Wallace still hasn’t uttered a peep; then again, he hasn’t had the chance—not with Mom’s flitting around making all that noise.

She’s bawling now. “W-what did your parents say, dear?”

The question is directed at Mateo.

“We haven’t told my parents yet, ma’am—we wanted to tell you first. We’ll meet my folks in person this weekend, I hope. I’m trying to coordinate it. But…I have a few nieces and nephews already, so I don’t think it’ll be a big deal.”

I wonder if that’s true.

What mother wouldn’t be excited for their child’s first child?

I’m certain he’s downplaying it for Genevieve Wallace’s benefit, and for that, I am grateful.

There is more crying and Mom keeps hugging Dad, probably because she doesn’t have my shoulder to sob into. There is no way I’ll escape her emotional displays of affection.

I tell her we’re going to find out the sex of the baby.

Tell her the appointment is coming up and that I’ll tell her everything when she’s back in town, whenever that is.

Dad asks Mateo a few questions—mostly about baseball, of course—before we disconnect the call.

“When did you say you’re going to the doctor?”

“Huh?” I didn’t hear a word of what either of them said, lost in my own daydream.

“I asked when your next doctor’s appointment is.”

Good lord. “You absolutely do not need to know when my appointment is.”

Buzz looks at Mateo. “Are you going?”

“Uh. Yes?” The duh is implied.

This incites my brother. “Why does he get to go and not me?”

Rudely, he points an index finger at Mateo accusingly, pointing as if he’s a trial attorney prosecuting a witness on the stand—a jury on television, more like—throwing around legal terms in a desperate attempt to win his argument.

“I object!”

“You can’t object.” I pat my mouth as if this is the most boring conversation in the world. “He’s the father.”

“You object to my objection?” he sputters. “On what grounds? Circumstantial evidence does not make him any more special than it makes me.”

My brother is insane.

After having sat and listened to my brother whine for the past half hour, Mateo speaks up from his spot on the sofa, where he was peacefully clicking through the channels. “Actually, that makes me way more special—super special, some might say—than it makes you.”

So there.

Buzz gasps. “How dare you.”

“Don’t you have a wife?” Tripp tosses out, bending to scratch Chewy behind the ears.

“Yeah—she told me I was acting like a lunatic and not to come home until I chilled out. I’m driving her batshit crazy. Her words, not mine.”

“That’s because you’re bored. Maybe we could go play catch,” Mateo offers kindly.

“Changing the subject isn’t going to change the subject, so…yeahhh.” My stubborn, bullheaded brother nods his head as if his decision is final. “I think I’m going to that appointment.”

“No you’re not,” Tripp tells him.

“You’re not the boss of me, last time I checked.” Buzz snorts so loudly I’m surprised he doesn’t choke.

“I am the elder Wallace.”

More snorting. “Dad is the elder Wallace.”

“Well you’re not going, case closed.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

They are seriously arguing amongst themselves as if Mateo and I are not here, posturing and peacocking to be the alpha male.

“One, you can’t go if I can’t go, and two, there is no number two.”

So there.

Matter settled.

Thank God.

“Hi. Hello,” Buzz continues in a way only he can. “No one is stopping you from going. I didn’t say you can’t go, I’m telling you I’m going. The more the merrier at these ultrasounds, am I right or am I right?”

They high-five.

“This escalated far too quickly,” Mateo mutters from behind me. I can’t tell if he’s as horrified as I am or just mildly amused—or both?